


hearts of glass, souls of steel

by DangerDuchess, TheHiddenPassenger



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Friends to Lovers, M/M, PTSD, bad memories, shared shower, who knows what else.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-09-21 22:45:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9570056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerDuchess/pseuds/DangerDuchess, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHiddenPassenger/pseuds/TheHiddenPassenger
Summary: Jesse McCree and Hanzo Shimada are just friends. They're very GOOD friends, of course, but there's really nothing more than that between them... A dispute about hygiene plants the seeds of something for which neither of them is prepared and with sake to water it, the blossom blooms just a BIT too quickly.





	1. steam

The water was hot, scalding even. He could not see the mirror, but it was probably covered in a fine layer of mist, the sort which obscured all but blurry outlines. The shower was hot enough Jesse could feel the grease began to roll off his scarred flesh, presently. He ran his hands down over tawny skin, marveling at the grit that chased itself in cascading rivulets toward the basin. Hanzo Shimada stood just behind him, watching the grime run like a cataract of filth down the cowboy’s form. It had been difficult to tell what was dirt and what was just tanned skin until Jesse positioned himself under the spray good and proper. Either way, Hanzo was more than a little fond of the view, though he wouldn’t say it aloud. That would have been inappropriate. 

They were friends, after all. The two of them had showered in the men’s locker-room adjacent the practice range a dozen and a half times and then some, always carrying a civil conversation, no questions asked and no awkwardness exchanged. But this was different, wasn’t it? Did it  _ have _ to be different? It was certainly more intimate, but there was no harm in it. 

The entire situation was the result of a somewhat heated discussion between the gunslinger and his fellow anachronism after a relatively rigorous training session. Hanzo had insisted that, whether Jesse showered or not was irrelevant if he did not do it  _ properly _ . Jesse had teased that maybe he needed to be  _ shown _ . Rising to the challenge, as the cowboy knew he would, the archer insisted McCree meet him in his quarters, later on, to be properly bathed. There was a slight disconnect in Jesse’s mind, regarding why he’d taken that particular path, goading the handsome archer into inviting him over for a shower, but he’d long since shrugged that off, figuring it would resolve itself in due time. 

It hadn’t, not really, anyway, fading instead to something of a dull needling at the back of his mind, a sort of repeated mantra,  _ why, why, why. _ This was inevitably capped off and tossed aside with a simple question to the inverse:

_ Why not? _

And so here they were, the two of them, unclothed and standing just a bit too close in the shower of Hanzo’s quarters, McCree without his prosthetic, a mere nerve plate covering the scarred tissue at the end of his worthless stump. They looked for all the world like they belonged this way, but of course neither had an outside perspective and if someone  _ had  _ pointed this out, both archer and gunslinger would have insisted vehemently that it was to settle a disagreement--and then ask how this individual was privy to their private affairs. 

In any case, the shower felt good, no matter what the case or the company, though Hanzo’s presence certainly enhanced it. Shared showers were the only kind McCree truly appreciated, otherwise they were a damn waste of time. Whether there was a privacy partition between the two bathers or not was of no concern to the cowboy. He craved the company when doing a menial task such as cleaning himself. Chatter kept his brain in the here and now, caging restless thoughts like fluttering crows which would otherwise flit off to do their worst, pecking at the carrion of awful memories.

Hanzo’s hands on him brought Jesse’s focus very quickly back from its sudden musings. Quite a bit shorter than McCree, the archer found himself reaching upward to begin assisting in the sluicing of filth off his friend. Strong hands moved gently, but firmly along the other man’s shoulders. He could feel the powerful, tight muscle beneath his fingertips. Where there was grime, Hanzo wiped it away, and where there were scars, he touched, respectfully, trying not to linger. Jesse had tensed at first, but loosened up gradually as his companion continued. 

The cowboy’s hair had been the initial transgression that had sparked the debate, but Hanzo had been firm that washing one part and not the rest was the  _ real  _ waste of time. To that end, Jesse held very still, almost statuesque, with water still running over him in a torrent of heat, sending gooseflesh over his limbs and torso in waves, half in time with Hanzo’s fingers and half on their own. 

Those fingers were calloused, but the touch was gentle. The outlaw mercenary knew the other man meant him no harm, but his body had been tuned to danger for a long time and the urge to bolt was strong. Hanzo was working through that tension, determined. The coils and knots in Jesse’s muscles proving an even greater obstacle than he’d first anticipated, but one by one, he was working them out. 

“I had no idea you could do  _ that _ ,” McCree babbled, “where’d ya learn--”

The end of his sentence was cut off by a throaty yelp as Hanzo worked at a particularly nasty knot in his shoulder. He added this skill to the budding dossier in his mind, blossoming full and sweet under the heading “Hanzo Shimada.” Archery, free-running, and now, massage. What a talented man. 

A soft “tsk” passed Hanzo’s lips as he pressed firmly into the same spot, pushing the knot out with precise force. It would hurt, very likely, more than it had before, but to rid the cowboy of such a nuisance was more important than whatever pain it caused in the meantime. 

“This one is probably from that heavy blanket you somehow daily mistake for a scarf,” said Hanzo with some sardonic glee. 

“The word is  _ serape _ , darlin’,” Jesse responded languidly,  his voice dissolving into a moan as Hanzo hit another tough spot. He shivered and arched his back, trying to bite  _ that _ particular sound down. For his part, the dragon smiled at it, his lips pulling back in a somewhat predatory manner that the helpless gunslinger could not see. It was always enjoyable to astound the cowboy and Hanzo could tell he was accomplishing this. With someone as strange as McCree, doing so was its own reward, because his reactions were incredibly overdramatic. 

“I believe the word is  _ ridiculous _ ,” Hanzo shot back. 

“Why’ve ya gotta hate on my ensemble, one-teat-out-san?” Jesse was testing the water at this point, trying to gauge exactly how much of a sense of humor Hanzo Shimada had developed over the course of their interactions. To say their beginnings had been rough would have been a massive understatement. 

An amused huff escaped the archer’s lips, but he said nothing more. He wasn’t the kind of many who bandied words often and keeping up a rapport with Jesse McCree had the potential to be exhausting. Filling the air endlessly was pointless… except, sometimes. He was willing to listen to McCree drawl on for hours, if he was being perfectly honest with himself. Hanzo said nothing of this realization, of course. He believed his actions would speak for him, in time. Anyway, if he kept kneading Jesse’s muscles this way, the sounds floating through the shower were going to become far more pleasant than mere talk.

“I’m a fearsome gunslinger, y’know?” Jesse continued, his voice echoing off the shower walls as Hanzo’s fingers worked magic on terribly tense muscles. “My outfit is  _ all _ function and class.” 

_ He  _ didn’t feel the need to allow silence in this airspace. Hanzo clearly didn’t mind, else he’d have cut the American’s tongue out by now. There were moments when Jesse thought perhaps he was chattering away too much, but the archer never stopped him, bless his soul. He appreciated the silence and the talk, understanding the need for both.

“Your belt buckle is almost larger than your gun,” came Hanzo’s next observation. The cowboy’s goofy outfit had no shortage of ridiculous, but Hanzo had come to expect such things from the man by now. After all, everything was supposedly bigger in Texas and bigger still in New Mexico or so he’d been told repeatedly by a certain inappropriately-dressed gunslinger.

“Everything’s bigger in Texas and bigger still in New Mexico,” Jesse echoed Hanzo’s thoughts aloud, a phenomenon which moderately alarmed the archer. Unbeknownst to Hanzo, Jesse meant more than just his massive belt buckle. The cowboy knew he ought to dial such humor back, but he couldn’t resist. McCree had a lot of gumption, speaking to someone like Hanzo in that manner, but the cowboy’s attitude was also part of his ensemble and  _ it _ never came off. The dragon scoffed, smiling despite himself...behind McCree’s back, of course. 

“So you have told me. Clearly, the egos are larger, as well.”

It was the American’s way, he supposed. Hanzo’s way was far simpler, consisting only of leaning forward and pressing his mouth gently between the man’s shoulder blades.  _ This _ was a completely unexpected gesture. Jesse felt the scratchy fuzz of the man’s well-trimmed beard first and then his prominent nose and finally those surprisingly soft lips. Jesse’s back stiffened a little, his body reacting to the sudden change in contact. 

It was impossible to miss the shift from ease to discomfort in the man’s posture. Hanzo was not a fool. Respectfully, he retracted the small gesture and simply continued to massage the other man’s wide shoulders. Already they felt less tense, but there was always more to be done. Always.

Jesse didn’t know how precisely to react to the kiss--and it  _ had _ been a kiss--being reversed so quickly. His tensing up had been instinctive, uncontrollable, a survival mechanism from years of being chased.  _ Some good that’ll do ya, when the man’s already behind ya. What a fool you are,  _ Jesse hissed internally.

He felt bad, or guilty somehow. The cowboy didn’t want Hanzo to stop, but also didn’t know how to express that without sounding desperate and weird. They were just friends, after all. Of course, McCree would have been a fool to think that a man pressing his lips between tense shoulder blades was a mere gesture of friendship, but he pushed that thought to the back burner in favor of continuing conversation. 

“Is New Mexico loud?” Hanzo asked, truly curious if the culture of shouting was a States-wide thing, or just an isolated phenomenon. As he spoke, he pulled his hands away, looking for something with which to wash their hair. Simply standing in the shower felt rather silly. It was not the custom of his culture to do this at all, but he’d adjusted since joining up with the heroes of Overwatch. This was just a couple of good friends, sharing a shower. The kiss meant nothing. “You often speak of the size of things, but size alone means little.”

If the situation was different, Jesse would have guessed Hanzo was making a highly inappropriate innuendo. The joke had played itself out and would continue to do so, but this was just a step or two further than McCree had expected it to go. If the warm water had not already turned his freckled cheeks crimson, then that question did the trick.  He swallowed hard and tried his best to tame his wild imagination. Of course, Hanzo was not talking about anything remotely filthy and it was Jesse’s own damn fault he couldn’t escape those errant thoughts. 

“Not as loud as New York,” he answered smoothly, mourning the loss of those strong hands. 

“Mm,” was the reply from Hanzo. He’d been to New York once when he was younger, with his father and younger brother. His impressions were limited to what he had seen in the car between the airport and the hotel. It didn't seem like the type of place the cowboy would stay, or could even stand for long, certainly. “I didn’t know you and your blanket went that far north,” he gently teased, tapping the man’s back with the bottle of shampoo.

“My  _ serape _ and I are world travelers,” McCree responded with gusto. He used his hands to express himself and was unfortunately down to one, but that didn’t slow him down. As he began describing his vacation to Dubai back in his younger days, he realized just how comfortable he was around the archer. That being said, he kept his back facing Hanzo. His slowly stiffening cock would not have made for a great conversation piece. In fact, he was attempting to talk it down. With that, the cowboy was back off to the races with his babbling. 

Hanzo listened as he squirted a small dollop of shampoo into his palm. He hadn't washed someone else’s hair in a long time and Genji had been significantly shorter, but it was still the same task. Gently, he started massaging in the shampoo into Jesse’s wet hair. 

The fingers working on his scalp were just as pleasurable as the cowboy had thought they’d be, which was a problem. Jesse stopped mid-sentence to shiver and moan. He could see his nipples going hard and could feel the rush of blood to his nethers. Who knew the scalp could even  _ be _ an erogenous zone. Well  _ someone _ did, but he had personally been unaware. The cowboy felt himself tilting his head back to receive more scratches, like some kind of large, desperate, feline. 

In the small space of the shower, Jesse’s moan couldn’t really be ignored. And what a sound it was, the way it just slid out of the man’s mouth. Its echo seemed to hover just above the tiles. What was the Shimada to do? He was thankful that McCree was facing the other direction, hiding the sudden flush on Hanzo’s cheeks. Of course, he took a small bit of pride in knowing he could draw such a sound from the cowboy. To that end, his talented hands refused to stop, doing his best to get every strand of the man’s hair covered and cleaned. 

After a moment, McCree registered that perhaps he should be a bit lower to the ground, in order to make Hanzo’s job a bit easier, offering the other man a, “hang on a sec,” as he moved. He shifted a little and then lowered himself to his knees. His back was still facing Hanzo, just in case. It was a risky move, given their proximity, but the closer Hanzo could get, the more effectively he could scratch Jesse’s head and the cowboy was absolutely all about  _ that _ life. 

The archer had stepped back as the cowboy moved, his own stripped prosthetics clicking on the tile. He didn’t take up his position again until McCree settled properly. He washed his friend’s hair languidly in that shower, an oddly familiar endeavor, one that he’d long missed. It felt right, this movement, this proximity. There was very little that was blatantly sensual about it, yet the entire thing had a certain sultry air to it that he could not escape. His decorum demanded he stop at once, but the sounds McCree kept making pleaded otherwise. 

“Perhaps I should make you pay me for this.”

“Yeah?” Jesse was only half listening, really, relishing the feeling of those fine, dextrous fingers running across his scalp. It would be a bit before his knees began to hurt on the padded, rubber-textured floor of the shower, so he set about enjoying himself in the meantime. 

At this point, Hanzo might as well have not existed aside from his fingers. The archer smiled slightly, muttering under his breath in his native Japanese, “ _ with you like  _ this _ , I could just  _ take  _ some sort of payment _ .” 

“Huh?” Another half-conscious response from Jesse, who was in ecstasy, rather like some beast, tamed by sweetness and a massage. He hadn’t the foggiest clue what sort of position he’d put them both in, or if he  _ did _ , he certainly didn’t care enough to change it. Hanzo had said something about payment and then the fog of pleasure rolled in and took over. 

Hanzo shook his head, not that the cowboy could see. All that the other man was concerned with remained the archer’s hands. That wasn’t going to change, so long as Hanzo had his fingers laced in silky chestnut hair. 

“Nothing, McCree-san,” he said. He worked the shampoo in for a few more moments before he finally withdrew his hands, rinsing the suds off them in the stream of the shower. 

“Aw…” Jesse whined.

“Rinse,” came Hanzo’s simple command. Reluctantly, the cowboy stood and tilted his head forward to release the soap from his hair. He had to admit, it always  _ did  _ look better when it was clean, but who had the time? He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder at his companion and instead focused on getting all the soap out.

“What’s next?”

“In a moment, conditioner,” Hanzo responded, beginning to repeat the process on himself. He half wanted to make some quip about the cowboy not knowing how to wash his own hair, but figured it wasn’t really necessary and bit his tongue. That was the difference between them, it seemed. Instead of verbalizing anything else, he watched McCree’s strong back shift as the man rinsed. Friends sharing a shower. Just friends.

The equivalent of “bros being dudes” was definitely happening inside Jesse McCree’s head as well, with a little more “pardner” and a side of “yee-haw.” He lifted both arms reflexively to run fingers through his hair and finish the job, but had gotten so caught up in the moment, he forgot about his missing limb. The cowboy flushed crimson and tried to cover it up, grateful at least that his back was turned. He masked the gesture as a stretch. 

It would be a lie to say that Hanzo wasn’t curious about McCree’s arm, but having two prosthetics of his own, he knew better than to ask. Knowing Jesse, he’d probably talk about it eventually. For now, Hanzo pulled his sudsy hair over his shoulder, draping it across the blue dragon on his skin. In a moment, he’d ask to stand under the water himself, but while McCree was still in front of him… 

Jesse had to give up his spot pretty quick here, he knew that, but the water felt so nice. He lamented its upcoming loss. Showering was a luxury he’d not had whilst on the run. And he certainly had not had time to find a fine honey like Hanzo Shimada with whom to share it.  _ Careful _ , he scolded internally.  _ He ain’t no one’s honey _ . 

“You ah… need this?” Jesse asked, gesturing toward the spray without turning. 

“If you are finished,” responded Hanzo, as if they were sharing a pencil, or something menial of that nature. Of course, showering was also considered a simple task, but in the presence of another? That changed things. Of course, with the way Hanzo acted, one would have thought it meant nothing at all. His mind could race for miles and none would be the wiser. It was how the former heir to the Shimada clan had learned to survive, even amongst his own family members. His guard was rarely down. 

Meanwhile, McCree was pondering how precisely they were supposed to switch positions in the shower without making the situation awkward. It wasn’t, yet, but it definitely had the potential to  _ become _ that way. He supposed he could step aside and allow his friend to shuffle past, but Jesse wasn’t exactly a narrow fellow. Wide shoulders, wide hips and the beginnings of a belly made for someone who simply took up space. Finally, the cowboy gave up overthinking it and nodded, turning and pressing his back to the wall of the shower, averting his eyes politely, but without overdoing the gesture, lest Hanzo think him a prude. 

The small space provided did indeed make the switch somewhat difficult, even for someone as sure on their feet as Hanzo Shimada. He stepped forward gingerly, trying to get into position quickly enough to minimize the discomfort of both parties. However, moving quickly on tile (however safe the padded rubber strips might have made it at one point), in stripped, somewhat wet, metallic prosthetics was hardly an easy task. His hands flew out as he lost his footing momentarily, grasping instinctively at anything solid enough to hold him. 

Fortunately, McCree was both solid enough and willing to do so. Reflexes being what they were, Jesse was more than quick enough to catch as much weight as he could support with his remaining arm. No one ended up bleeding, which would have been more than a little embarrassing, but they  _ did _ end up pressed close to each other, wet, warm, and naked. 

Hanzo quickly found his footing as vermillion settled on his hawk-like face, splashing across nose and cheekbones. The color betrayed an otherwise passive (if somewhat startled) expression the man was trying fairly hard to keep. Getting distance in the enclosed space of the shower proved to be a bit of a challenge, however. Shoulders squared almost too quickly, Hanzo managed a half-bow, and an apology.

“My apologies, McCree-san.”

It was a little too formal for the cowboy, who shrugged, his face already sporting a fashionable red tint from earlier. Being so close to Hanzo was doing nothing to fade the color. He moved back and took his place behind his friend, gladly allowing the man his turn under the spray. With the Shimada clan scion otherwise occupied, Jesse afforded himself a long, rakish look up and down the archer’s muscular back, thighs and buttocks. Damn.

For Hanzo’s part, once he was under the water and mostly sheltered from (his awareness of) the cowboy’s gaze, he started to relax again. His fingers moved through his hair, sending white-tinted rivulets of water in speedy lines and waves down the very muscles and flesh the cowboy so admired. Jesse had not  _ gone _ of course; his presence was much too warm and friendly to ignore. But the water deafened him to his surroundings for a moment and allowed Hanzo to collect his thoughts.

Jesse’s gaze continued its journey, following the curvature of muscles, the hardness and angles, and the beautiful, intricate ink of his tattoo. Oh, how Jesse wanted to reach out and touch it. 

“How far did you go in your world travels?” Hanzo asked, if nothing else to give his mind something else to do than wondering if McCree was looking at his backside. He was, of course, had not stopped since they’d switched places, but in order to respond, the cowboy had to reign in his appreciation for a well-toned body. 

“Oh, all over,” he assured the other man with a grin. Hanzo could not see the smile, he knew, but could most likely infer its presence from experience. In their relatively short time (maybe a year) at the Gibraltar Watchpoint, Hanzo had learned plenty and more about Jesse McCree and his habits. One might have even gone so far as to say that he’d grown  _ fond _ of the man...just, perhaps not  _ all  _ his habits. “After all,” Jesse concluded, “what’s the point of bein’ on the run if ya don’t get to see the sights?”

True to form, Hanzo could feel the warmth of that smile on his back, could hear it in the tone of the cowboy’s voice. It was inviting and contagious, so much so that he could not resist doing so himself, if for no other reason than that McCree was smiling. The differences between them were stark, a chasm of culture, language, upbringing, lifestyle… yet there they were, showering together, good friends. 

“Did you wear your blanket everywhere you traveled then, too?” 

“ _ Serape _ ,” McCree repeated himself, enunciating each syllable just so, “c’mon, darlin’, it ain’t a blanket.”

This was clearly not the first time he had run through this conversation, with Hanzo or anyone else. In the end, blanket or  _ serape _ , it didn’t seem to matter since it evidently always looked silly and worthless to everyone who chose to comment. 

“Of course,” Hanzo said, still smiling slightly to himself, wondering what Jesse would do if he didn’t have someone’s ear to talk off. Would the man explode without some outlet for his boisterous stories? Hanzo engaged him teasingly to watch him get worked up, which was always entertaining. The idea of the cowboy popping like a balloon without someone constantly taking the piss out of him was humorous. Hanzo reflected on this as he dragged his fingers through dark hair, forcing another wave of water through and to the floor with a wet slapping sound. “For how long did you travel?”

“Most o’ my life,” Jesse responded, fighting the sudden urge to run his hand over those carved muscles, maybe even through the man’s hair. “Left home early and never went back. Why would I? Got better places to be.” 

There was pain inside the cowboy, hidden by his contagious smile and puffed-out chest. Hanzo recognized the tone, but respected the man enough not to pry. Instead, he pulled his hair into one hand, then two, splitting the lot of it over both shoulders. It felt quite clean by this point. 

“How old were you when you began?” He could not help his curiosity on this matter. Though he would not beg details or prod into specifics, the Shimada wanted to know the skeleton of Jesse’s life, if nothing else, because they were friends. Jesse was too distracted by the view of the back of Hanzo’s neck to respond directly. The poor cowboy was sporting half an erection as it was. The last thing he needed was for Hanzo to feel or  _ see _ it. To that end, he snapped back to attention and moved back just a hair. 

“Left at fifteen… maybe fourteen, I don’t recall. Joined a gang, or started one… I misremember. Point is, I’m a dang model citizen.”

Hanzo allowed another “tsk” to leak out the side of his mouth. The cowboy and his strange humor. Hanzo had to admit, though, the man  _ was _ charming and was also one of the only people he knew who could make him really laugh. He was warm presence, especially now, just behind the archer. Of course, Hanzo didn’t dare dwell on the man watching him clean himself. If he let those thoughts take him, nothing good could come. Nothing ever had.    
“A gang of children? I’m sure New Mexico was very afraid.”

“ _ They _ weren’t kids,” McCree clarified quietly, “I was jus’ scarier than they were.” 

It wasn’t his fondest memory, but as a man who lived with no regrets, the cowboy owned it, start to finish. He’d done some shady shit, all right. Blackwatch had changed him, but not completely. The outlaw still lived on in his red blood and beating heart. That, very likely, had been what convinced Reyes to recruit him.

Hanzo had absently begun playing with his hair as Jesse spoke. There was an unmistakable edge of severity in McCree’s words that made Hanzo's hands still, however. Turning slightly, he looked over his tattooed shoulder at the cowboy (eyes up, of course). 

“How much is your bounty?” It was a question of pure curiosity. His own wandering, bounty-hunting days had been tossed forcibly behind him upon joining his brother at the Gibralter Watchpoint. He was tired of running and chasing degenerates. Jesse McCree was enough of a degenerate to satisfy Hanzo for the rest of his life--and besides that, he was a damn good man.

“More’n I’ve ever stolen,” Jesse responded, eyes upon the ceiling. His adam’s apple bobbed as he contemplated just how much money someone might receive if they brought him in alive. He rubbed the nerve plate at the end of his stump absently. 

“Mm,” the Shimada said, turning back slowly. He wondered what it would have been like to meet McCree at such an age. What would have happened between them? Hanzo had an idea, but kept it tucked deep within himself. Instead, he wrung water from his hair once more. “Since everything is so big in the United States, maybe the bounties are biggest there, as well?”

The cowboy could hardly contain the laughter that bubbled up from deep in the pit of his stomach; it spilled out of him and filled every corner of the small space. Everything was, indeed, quite large where he came from… bounties, crime syndicates, gangs… His mind drifted unbidden to his growing erection, because at heart, he was still a young man with a horrid penchant for innuendo. 

“Sure thing, darlin’,” he affirmed, very pleased with himself. 

Hanzo took great pride in his ability to pull such vivid noises from McCree. The laughter and the moaning were two he was more than pleased to check off his list. The man was so expressive, his sounds were their own reward. 

“I don’t understand,” Hanzo continued, “why you call me that, though. Darlin’ …It is not my name.”

For a split second, the cowboy was forced to pause, his gut going icy. Had he offended Hanzo? It wasn’t his intention. He had nicknames for half the people around the base, Hanzo’s brother, Genji, included. His was “Sugar,” in fact. Most people, though, he called “sweetheart,” “partner,” or “son,” despite his own age. Why that particular term of endearment? 

“It’s a… just a… y’know?” 

Jesse McCree was, for once, at a complete loss for words and Hanzo was doing precisely nothing to fill in the end of the sentence. The archer did not, in fact, know. He  _ did _ understand something of English and those who spoke it, having a penchant for assigning nicknames and pet names almost at random. He also understood that this particular one was only used for  _ him _ . McCree didn’t seem to be using it as a mocking gesture or provocation, however; that would’ve been foolish in the extreme.    
Hanzo had quickly come to the conclusion that he did not mind the term at all. The cowboy was charming and the way his voice fit around that particular word…. It was just another strange behavior in which the American engaged with impunity. Hanzo chalked it up to culture difference, moving on almost instantly, gingerly stepping around the soft swell in his breast that occurred every time he heard it. 

“I don’t mind if ya don’t want me to call ya that anymore,” the cowboy offered nevertheless, as an out for a man who was too damn polite for his own good--vicious, if provoked, but mostly just polite. The last thing McCree wanted to do was offend or upset Hanzo, but why the man’s happiness and comfort were suddenly so paramount, above and beyond his own was a complete mystery. 

“No, it… Mm,” Hanzo’s wide shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “It does not matter to me.” 

It didn’t. Not negatively, anyway, but doing anything other than deny what it  _ did _ make him feel would send the Shimada mad. McCree could do as he pleased, Hanzo reasoned, it didn’t bother him. What did Hanzo care about the American’s odd terms of endearment and incomprehensible sayings? What, for that matter, was a huckleberry? The archer ran a hand through his hair once again, taking a small step out from under the water stream. There was more yet to be done. 

McCree ran his tongue over parched lips, covered in water but thirsty like a man in the Sahara. His eyes still raked over Hanzo’s body from behind, unapologetic, but wary of being caught. He wanted to feel it, wrap an arm around him and have him close once more. Such a gesture could hardly have been appreciated at that juncture, however. He was pushing it with the pet name. Sure, Hanzo had kissed between his shoulder blades, but Jesse had a feeling that such movements had to be started by the archer. If McCree made the first move, he was sure to break whatever was between them, shattering it beyond repair. 

“Hey, can I ask ya somethin’?”

“Hm?” The archer looked over his shoulder at the man behind him, rather curious. The cowboy, who rarely stopped talking, had taken a long, pregnant pause and had only broken it with a request that felt heavier than perhaps it should have. Maybe it was the humidity from the hot water all around them. Hanzo nodded then, to signal that McCree could, in fact, ask him something.

Now, the best way to phrase what was on his mind would be the trick. Thus far, Hanzo had put up with all of Jesse’s shenanigans and general, good-natured chicanery. Maybe this would be the straw that broke the dragon’s back. 

“I always wondered--well not always, but ya ken my meaning…” another of those strange words, but McCree continued, “what’s a living tattoo feel like? Ya mind?”

He’d wanted to lay a hand on that thing since they met. 

A grin spread over the Shimada’s face. His gaze returned to the front of the shower, chuckling as he drew his hair back into one hand, settling it on his right shoulder. The blue dragon on his left side was a spectacle to behold and impossible to ignore, given that it was perpetually uncovered. 

“It is not living, per se… but a conduit for the spirit’s power… and I am surprised that you waited so long to ask,” he commented, stretching his left arm out as much as the confines of the shower curtain would allow. “Go on.”

McCree reached forward with the gentleness of someone about to come into contact with an exceedingly dangerous beast. Perhaps the beast was chained or sedated, but one still held utmost respect for something that could tear one limb from limb if the desire arose. He had stretched his remaining arm across his body to do so, which also left him feeling strange and off-balance. 

Jesse was almost surprised when his hand contacted soft flesh. He had half expected it to be scaley, like the beast it depicted. The very idea was so absurd, but McCree couldn’t help himself. His imagination was wild and the tattoo was wilder still.

“I hold two of the Shimada clan’s sacred dragons,” said Hanzo, “my… brother, Genji holds one, as well.” 

The hesitance at the word brother spoke of deep pain, regret and something else McCree couldn’t read. He knew the history between the two brothers and their family, enough to realize that he shouldn’t ask. Anyway, the dragon tattoo was taking up most of his attention. “I can show them to you… if you would like.” 

Now, Jesse McCree had heard stories of Hanzo unleashing these beasts in the midst of battle, a massive, churning swirl of light and destruction, decimating anyone who stood in his way. How such a thing could be real was beyond the simple cowboy, but they had a woman on-base who could resurrect the dead and a giant gorilla who was probably more intelligent than all of them combined, so his bewilderment was very clearly misplaced. 

“I ain’t had the pleasure, darlin’,” he responded, which was his way of holding back the sheer excitement bubbling within his fuzzy chest. “But ah, maybe not here.”

The Shimada’s smile split wide, quickly turning into loud laughter. Hanzo shook his head, waving his other hand in dismissal. 

“No, no,  _ Neko-san _ , not here. Not unless you wish total destruction on my only recently refurbished bathroom… I am told the renovations were quite costly. No, there is far too little room in here for  _ us _ , much less my dragons,” he continued chuckling, the amusement dying down as quickly as it had arisen. He’d let his guard down. “Later,” he promised, “I will show you.”

Jesse had caught something glinting in Hanzo’s eyes that had not been present earlier. Was it real mirth? Surely that had been the source of his loud, belly laughter just now. What a pleasant sound. 

But he was going to see a couple of sacred dragons! He was so excited for his private screening of Shimada clan power, he bubbled:   
“I could hug you! But… ah…”

“You should condition your hair first,” the words were delivered in a grave tone, though Hanzo was still smiling. Hair care was no laughing matter, evidently. It was a grinning one, however. He  _ was _ going to get this done and he was going to enjoy himself. Jesse had no choice in the matter. Now that Hanzo had him in the shower, the cowboy was getting clean. This pleased the Shimada scion. 

“Kneel once more, Jesse,” Hanzo instructed, preferring to use McCree’s first name, despite the informality. It was simply easier for him to pronounce than the man’s obnoxiously cowboy-ish surname. “I will put it in.”

“Ya think I’m that easy, huh darlin’?” McCree couldn’t resist making a joke at that point, since he'd been told more than once to kneel so someone could put  _ something  _ in someplace it may or may not have belonged. The cowboy had, after all, led a very strange life. He honestly contemplated kneeling right then and there and just waiting for the man to turn around. After all, they were already naked together.

But friends didn’t do that sort of thing. 

Hanzo paused and gave the mischievous cowboy another sidelong glance over his shoulder, meeting the man’s eyes. Confused or incredulous, the archer’s natural stoicism didn’t let on. Instead, he grasped the conditioner bottle and thrust it over his shoulder at McCree.

“Do it yourself if you prefer… what is the word? Smart-ass.”

The cowboy was so proud of Hanzo’s correct use of the word “smart-ass” that he didn’t even mind being the source of the smart-assery in question. He held up his hand in mock surrender, not about to give up the feeling of those fingers on his scalp for a crappy joke. 

“No no, I’m down a limb an’ yer better at it anyway,” which was the honest truth, of course. It was never the same doing it to yourself. “Never used conditioner before; might do it wrong.” 

Hanzo smiled, retracting the bottle, “it’s rather simple. I’m sure even  _ you _ could handle such a task.”

The rugged cowboy didn’t seem to be the type of person to care much for his hair. That was half the reason Hanzo had invited Mccree to his shower in the first place, to right the wrongdoings Jesse McCree had committed against his beautiful, chestnut locks. The power Hanzo’s hands had over the cowboy was just a bonus. 

“By all means,” Jesse invited, doing exactly what he had just convinced himself not to do. The cowboy lowered his body, settling down onto his knees once more, this time facing Hanzo’s rear end, which he had to admit was rather fetching. He kept this to himself, managing to keep a straight face, for whatever that was worth in this new compromising position. 

Once the archer had a sizeable dollop of the conditioner in his hand, he turned to face the other man. The speed with which red overtook the flesh of his cheeks was astounding. There was  _ some _ space between them, sure, but that didn’t change the fact that his groin was very close to the other man’s face, if a bit below. Jesse McCree was tall, even on his knees. 

Hanzo visibly hesitated a moment before beginning to run his hands through the other man’s hair, meticulously, tips first. The ends were what had to be conditioned, after all. He focused on his task and their friendship. They were friends. They understood each other. This would be fine. 

McCree had his eyes closed, partially to alleviate too much awkwardness, and partially to keep conditioner out of his eyes. One of them might have been cybernetic, but that didn’t stop soap burning like a bitch. He was all about pragmatism. That being said, the cowboy couldn’t help smiling at the idea of Hanzo’s face turning bright red. The smile that had settled on his lips was easy, yet devious, perking playfully up at the corners, trailing a sensual curve and meeting just below his strong, prominent nose. 

Hanzo’s fingers began working back upward, to the man’s scalp. His movements were a bit quicker than before, but no less gentle. They were friends. He was embarrassed. That was all. But Hanzo had to be honest, the curve of McCree’s smile was incredibly… endearing? The archer couldn’t help but show his own once more, not that Jesse could see it. 

When McCre began biting down on his lip as Hanzo’s fingers started working on him, he gave up and resigned himself to the knowledge that whatever happened after that would be out of his control. His brain was entirely elsewhere, lost in the massage of his companion’s fingers. His thick, chestnut hair was being tamed by the Shimada’s expert touch, same as before. 

Standing between the shower head and the kneeling cowboy, Hanzo could feel the warm water running down his back, sending waves of goosebumps outward once more, as if he had just entered. What an odd sensation to have so far into the ritual. His attention found itself once more on McCree, who looked so peaceful in his hands, eyes closed with a lazy, lip-chewing smile plastered on his face. It was blissful, tranquil, and made Hanzo’s blush extend downward for reasons he could not reconcile. 

Jesse’s mouth opened slightly, a low moan escaping those sinful lips of his. He was half-hard, but it was okay, they were just friends. It was warm and those hands felt so good. He reached up, unconsciously, to brace himself, his hand ending up on Hanzo’s powerful hip. 

There… again, that sound. That moan. It slipped out just as perfectly as before, too perfect. Hanzo could feel himself begin to harden, only made worse by the cowboy’s sudden, strong grip on his hip. This pulled a small gasp from Hanzo upon contact. The pads of McCree’s fingers were rough, but not hard, a perfect mixture of firm and gentle. Too good.

The conditioner soaked into his hair and McCree ran his tongue over those lips as another moan escaped. He was almost fully erect by that point, but there was nothing to be done. They were just friends and shit like that happened sometimes. The cowboy’s eyes were still closed, of course, but he was pretty sure Hanzo was sporting at least half an erection himself.

“You okay, darlin’?” He felt the need to ask, as his friend’s fingers had ceased their movement, temporarily distracted. 

“Of course,” the Shimada shot right back. The warmth of the shower and the other man’s presence were fogging his fang-sharp mind. They were friends. Did friends do this for each other? Maybe not traditionally, but McCree wouldn’t have agreed if he wasn’t okay with it and the man was far from traditional, anyway. Despite that, Hanzo removed his hands from Jesse’s hair and rinsed them quickly in the stream. 

“You may rinse now. I must step out. Please excuse me.”


	2. imbalance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesse finishes his shower and fumbles with his prosthetic, while Hanzo does his best to look like he totally isn't laundering his cowboyfriend's clothing--Angela isn't fooled.

When Jesse felt Hanzo’s presence recede, he was struck with a sudden sense of chill, of loss--as if he’d  _ had  _ anything in the first place. The very idea was laughable. He just liked being near someone so stoic, so calm, to counteract his rowdy sex appeal and wild tendencies. Right? Hanzo would make a great wingman…

McCree stood and reluctantly rinsed his hair out, which was difficult given that he only had one arm. The outlaw managed to clear the suds out with minor setbacks and ventured to poke his head out. He made a mental note, before speaking, to tell Hanzo later on that he had been greatly inconvenienced by the lack of a second set of hands. 

“You sure yer all right?” Jesse called after a few moments, concerned for his friend, but not wanting to press if it was something personal. The cowboy figured Hanzo simply needed the space. His own curiosity wouldn’t be allowed to override his respect for the other man.

In the end, Jesse was right--about the needed space, anyway. Hanzo cursed himself for being unable to think clearly with McCree’s stupid dog smile right there in that warm box with him. And those sounds. They were friends! Hanzo was overthinking this, surely; it was force of habit for a man who was to have inherited the great burden of a massive syndicate and corporate dynasty. 

This was for both of their sakes. He needed to step away, not out of shame, but respect. He had tugged a towel from a rack on the wall, newly furnished with soft terry cloth and was wrapping it about his waist by the time McCree poked his head out of the shower. 

“I am fine, I promise,” he raised a hand to reassure the other man, not having a particularly convincing excuse and therefore not offering one. Jesse was usually good enough to simply leave off and take whatever answer Hanzo gave.

He’d left a clean set of clothing out for himself and waited for McCree to retract his head before beginning to dress; the cowboy obliged presently. If the Shimada continued moving this way, going through the motions of casual friendship, keeping up appearances, it would stay just as it was...right? 

McCree’s clothes were sitting in a pile nearby. Hanzo reflected how they’d gotten there and continued to wonder if this is what friends did together? He stubbornly shook his head, attempting to rid himself of the image of the cowboy tugging his clothes off, piece by piece, every part of him rippling, scars moving with the shift of flesh over thick, corded muscle.  _ Enough! _

The cowboy, meanwhile, had decided that the shower felt better than how bad he probably should have felt for making the bathing ritual fairly awkward, so he stayed, sheltered by the curtain and steam. He could hear the shuffle of fabric outside and knew Hanzo was getting dressed, yearning to watch, if only to figure out how he put all that on without looking disheveled, as McCree likely would have if he tried. Within a few moments, the rhythmic click-click of prosthetics on tile alerted McCree to Hanzo’s quiet departure.

After a spell, he managed to force himself to turn the water off and toss back the patterned shower curtain with some ceremony. He needed a towel, that much wasn’t optional, but why not enjoy himself while he was seeking one? 

“There is a rack to the right of the sink,” Hanzo called into the bathroom, knowing what McCree would be seeking. He was busying himself in an ornate chair fiddling with his prosthetics, making sure they were dry and lubricated, as hot water often did the most damage to such things. He could not hide his reaction when Jesse stepped out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped about his relatively thick waist. 

“Huh?” McCree grunted.

“It already looks better,” said Hanzo, recovering gracefully, referring to the cowboy’s hair with a quick gesture of one hand. After all, that was what had started this whole endeavor. McCree had shambled in from a mission, covered in sweat, blood and grease and Hanzo had made a snide comment about his hair to Genji, who snorted, which alerted McCree and thus the snowball had begun to roll. Genji was an enabler, egging them both on as the argument had continued through dinner. When the challenge was issued, they were both too worked up to back down. 

At the compliment, Jesse touched his head almost reverently, smiling in return and then retracted it to grasp the towel, to ensure its positioning. Naked in the shower was one thing, but here, in Hanzo’s room, with the ocean-facing windows and large doors tossed wide to allow the evening sea breeze in? Certainly not. There was a line and McCree was bound and determined to skirt it--but he’d never cross, not without permission. 

He felt the pinch of the towel around his waist and lamented the extra he’d gathered thereabouts.  _ Added swing ain’t never hurt a soul _ , he reminded himself, brushing it off. His one-armed attempt at coverage was feeble, at best, but it was better to attempt than to traipse about in the buff. 

“Ya did a good job, darlin’... ain’t been so clean in ages.”

The Shimada huffed, smiling and turning back to his legs. It was intricate work and took some time and concentration, not that Jesse was distracting him. He could focus through anything. Certainly the cowboy would not throw him off. 

“That does not surprise me at all,” said Hanzo lightly. McCree didn’t really smell that bad (usually), but like most things, it was fun to tease the man about it and to satisfy his own, fastidious nature. This tendency was evident in his quarters which, in the short months Hanzo had been present, had been outfitted with the most traditional, comfortable, home-like accessories and amenities he could manage to bring in undetected. Jesse marveled at the work the man must have put in to have it just so. His room was a far cry from this, barren and spartan, just as Gabe taught him.  _ Bring nothing in and leave nothing behind but stories about you, kid. And make sure those’re  _ good _.  _

“Ya wound me,” whined the cowboy, wishing he could clutch his heart, but for lack of arm. 

“I am glad to have been able to help,” Hanzo amended, offering the ghost of a smile. He was always so straightforward and truthful, especially regarding what was on his mind. For McCree, it was almost  _ too _ much fun to get on Hanzo’s case about things, but many of the cowboy’s terrible puns and teasing flew right by the archer, who had a whole different sense of humor due to upbringing and the stick--or arrow--up his ass. Jesse loved it. 

McCree had stooped to pick at his clothing on the way out of the bathroom, finding them to be “filthy” as Hanzo had earlier described when he had walked in. Jesse had denied it then, but now, confronted with the stench side by side with his new cleanliness, he simply could not bring himself to put it back on. 

Noting the cowboy’s state and the presence of the old clothes lying on the floor of his bathroom, Hanzo glanced over toward his wardrobe. Slowly, the man’s dilemma dawned on the Shimada. He was faced with a choice. He could just walk to McCree’s room and grab clothes for him, or…

“You may borrow a robe; there is one that might fit in the top of my wardrobe,” he said with a light flick of his head in that direction. “I will not allow you to put those filthy things on, not until they are cleaned.”

“Yeehaw!” The cowboy literally shouted, audibly, so both men could hear. It had not, as he’d thought, been mental and now he too was faced with a choice. His visage had returned to the beet red tone it had donned in the shower and he now had to shuffle to retrieved the offered clothing, or run, yee-hawing, out and away from the entire situation.  _ Mighty temptin’ option _ , he considered,  _ but he’d never let me live it down... _

Hanzo scoffed and rolled his eyes, but his smile was too wide to hide in order to show even mock scorn. The cowboy’s exclamations were ridiculous and stupid and made Hanzo smile like an idiot, to match his companion. Once he finished checking the joints and servos on his other leg, he stood, adjusting his  _ yukata _ . Jesse was having trouble locating the right one, partially afraid to touch any of the fine clothing, so Hanzo stepped forward to help. He laid a hand on McCree’s lower back and guided him away. 

“Here,” he said, fetching the proper article of clothing, a deep azure thing, tall and wide in the shoulders. It had belonged to his father, Shimada Sojiro. That same Sojiro who had committed atrocities against perhaps hundreds, including his own son, and whose voice had rang true in Hanzo’s head while committing an atrocity against his--brother. Hanzo chewed the memory down viciously, intent on redeeming the evil within the cloth by overlaying his too-good friend with it. He even held it open for his one-armed companion to step into. Jesse performed as asked, dropping the towel and moving forward. The matching  _ obi _ lay nearby and Hanzo twirled McCree about with a flick of his wrist, tightening the sash enough to cinch the lovely blue thing at the waist, covering the cowboy’s nakedness. 

It was kind of Hanzo to do this for him. Jesse couldn’t hold back his grin and continued to blush. Nothing was going to make his face any color but red at this point. He was, for once in his life, struck dumb and opted to keep his mouth sealed shut, allowing the smile and heat to overtake every inch of his face. He might have been overreaching, but Jesse could have sworn his friend was thoroughly enjoying his own ability to steal the words right out of the cowboy’s mouth. With joy in his task, the work was quick and precise and Jesse expected nothing less from the archer. Gratefully, he stepped back and allowed Hanzo to check his handiwork. 

“Thank ya,” said McCree quietly, snapping Hanzo back from his reverie. He’d been staring without realizing it. The fellow was lost in memories; McCree recognized the look. Hanzo nodded, giving a small grunt of affirmation, or approval, it was hard to say. Once he finished the knot properly, he gave it a pat and was ultimately satisfied, stepping back and gesturing that Jesse should come into his living area, to settle upon cushions he had set up near a fine  _ kotatsu _ near the balcony doors. The rooms at Gibraltar were quite a bit larger than many of the other Watchpoints, which had made this a coveted post for many Overwatch personnel back in the day.

“I will bring your horrid clothing to the laundry machines; perhaps they will eat your awful blanket…” 

“ _ Serape _ ,” Jesse hissed, making a face and settling himself near the  _ kotatsu, _ trying to remember how these things worked. Surely Genji had shown him at some point. His Japanese education was severely lacking and he floundered. 

“Your legs go underneath, Jesse,” Hanzo informed him, stooping to gather the cowboy’s clothing, sans belt, spurs and hat. He found it hilarious that McCree had not even defended his stupid blanket’s honor, save for the correction of its name. What a queer fellow. “Ah…. do you need help with your arm?” 

“Naw, I got it,” responded McCree, giving up trying to get his legs under the blanket-covered table and scrambling upward instead with the intent to retrieve his cybernetic limb. He felt mighty silly without it.

As Hanzo retreated with his arms full of clothing, Jesse searched around for his prosthetic, kicking himself for not remembering where he’d left it--unless Hanzo had moved and cleaned that, too. In fact, he  _ had _ , right along with his own prosthetics. The arm was lying on the couch near the chair in which Hanzo had been seated to fiddle with his legs. “Gotcha. Mighty thoughtful, darlin’... mighty thoughtful.”

It was not a long walk to the basement level of the Gibraltar base. There were laundry machines below that would do the job, even on  _ these _ clothes. Hanzo crinkled his nose at the scent of grease and blood and sweat. And then he took another sniff… and another. Swallowing hard, Hanzo maintained--with some difficulty--his scowl of disdain. He was just bringing clothing to the washer. Why did it feel so scandalous? He was doing his friend a favor. That was all.

The laundry room was, unfortunately, not unoccupied by the time the archer reached it. The miracle-working doctor, Angela “Mercy” Ziegler was doing a load of what looked like lacy undergarments, sheer stockings, things in which Hanzo had no interest… well, maybe a little, but he was too well-trained and far too polite to offer commentary. 

A blonde brow rose when she recognized Jesse McCree’s clothing in the arms of the Shimada archer. She knew better than to ask, but her mind did tend to wander, one of the detrimental side effects of being a scientist and a medic. She always wanted to know what her teammates were getting up to, if nothing else to keep them safe and healthy. Or that’s what she told herself. 

“Will I see you on the roof tomorrow,  _ herr _ Shimada?” She chirped in a friendly way. Of course, she was free to call him by his first name; he’d said as much, but her first instinct, when someone was looking as sullen as he was just now, was to be polite as possible or risk ire. 

He’d hesitated at the sight of the doctor, initially, but had quickly recovered himself and corrected, offering a quick bow as he tossed the clothing in. She didn’t mean anything by being here, beyond doing her laundry. 

“Of course, Ziegler- _ sensei _ ,” he responded, ultra-polite due to her venerated position as a healer and a nano-biological genius, besides. He respected a person who was willing to fling herself into the heat of battle to restore her comrades. Consequently, they’d established a small morning routine of coffee (tea, in his case) at dawn, on the roof of the base. It was comfortable, quiet and calming, a necessary respite before the inevitable chaos of the day. 

He made quick work of tossing Jesse’s clothing into one of the industrial, upright washing machines, selecting the proper setting and stepping back. Before he could leave, however, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“I believe his  _ serape _ is wool… so it won’t do well in that cycle. If you’d like, I’ll clean it by hand,” Angela offered sweetly. Hanzo poked a button to pause the washing machine, embarrassed that he’d not even considered the material of Jesse’s stupid blanket. He rescued it from the wash and thanked her. 

“I will do it…  _ arigatou gozaimasu _ ,” he responded, offering a deep bow and sincere thanks. It was difficult, even for Hanzo, to remain composed with those inquisitive blue eyes upon him, but he had no choice. The basins nearby were his next destination and washing the filth out would take some time. 

“ _ Bitte _ ,” she said, nodding politely and heading toward the doors. “Please, let me know if you need anything.”

With that, she left, reflecting on how he’d looked more uncomfortable than she’d ever seen him. Intriguing. Hanzo was the very picture of masculine composure, despite his diminutive height. He embodied the way of  _ bushido _ almost to the letter in his carriage. What in the world was this, then?  _ Ah well _ , she thought to herself,  _ I will find out soon enough _ .

Meanwhile, Jesse McCree had found himself in a bit of a pickle. That was to say, he could not properly attach his prosthetic without help and Hanzo would be back any moment. He looked and felt like an idiot.  _ Now _ he was embarrassed. The feeling had waited all night to rear its ugly head, his sense of shame, purring and crouching, a big cat in waiting, mocking the poor man. Now it pounced, ripping into him with claws that cut to his soul, reminding him that he was not whole. He was less.

Hanzo was not long in coming, more pleased than he should have been to be alone with McCree once more. With a small sigh, he shook his hair out, still damp from the shower. He yearned to tug it back properly, but the absence of the cowboy greeting him at the door had him venturing further into the living room-like setting further in. 

“Jesse?” One look at the prosthetic still in the tanned man’s hand and the cowboy’s helpless expression told Hanzo immediately what had happened. Or rather, what had  _ failed _ to happen. He offered an apologetic smile that spoke of understanding. “Need a hand…  _ pardner _ ?”

McCree went from dumbstruck to utterly pleased as peaches in a span that was potentially dangerous to the very young, the elderly, and those suffering heart conditions. Instead of huddling himself away, as he had intended to do, the pet name brought out the best in the American and he thrust the arm out toward Hanzo, lower lip pushed comically outward in a pathetic attempt at a puppy dog face. 

The Shimada snatched the metallic limb from the cowboy’s grasp, giving him a mildly scolding look. The prosthetic was a different make than Hanzo’s legs, a little bulkier, but dexterous. The attachment method was not difficult to figure out after a moment or two of turning it over. Pulling the sleeve of Jesse’s borrowed  _ yukata _ up, Hanzo slid the machine in place, hooking it back up to the rest of his friend’s outfitted stump. 

“I am glad I decided to clean this earlier,” said the archer with a nod of approval. “Putting something as filthy as this was on your clean body would have been abhorrent.”

“Add it to the list,” McCree snorted, referring to the ever-growing tally of filthy things he’d put on his body when moderately clean. What could have been an extremely awkward situation, had they not been such good friends, had just been another moment between them to be remembered with fond laughter. Hanzo was handy with prosthetics. This  _ too _ was to be remembered. 

The archer, in fact, still had his hands on McCree’s arm, despite the arm now being attached. He appeared to be inspecting it. Jesse didn’t want to interrupt, but cleared his throat to remind Hanzo that he was still present and wouldn’t mind having his arm returned to him. 

“Torbjörn’s work,” Jesse pointed out. “Mighty fine job. Say… you mind lettin’ me take a look at yer legs… y’know, next time it ain’t an inconvenience to ya?”

Hanzo flushed, but recovered instantaneously with practiced stoicism. “Next time. Mine do not come detached, save through force… and I would like to avoid that, if at all possible.”

Who’s to say there would be a next time? Maybe between then and now, one of them would realize that these things were  _ not _ , in fact, the sort of activities shared between “just friends,” but for now, neither man was mentally equipped to dwell on such a thing. 

Rather than picture Jesse McCree gently laying on a bed, slowly running his hands over the smooth curves of the metal and admiring fine, Shimada craftsmanship, Hanzo grasped his golden ribbon and began fastening his hair properly. 

“I’ll hold ya to it,” said McCree with a grin, feeling his cybernetic wrist and forearm, checking for abnormalities. The idea of feeling up Hanzo’s legs was a pleasing one, though Jesse  _ was _ legitimately interested in his prosthetics. He was also interested in what was above them. The cowboy wisely kept  _ that _ buried, however. Risking the ire of a highly trained assassin was beyond the worst idea he’d ever had and he’d had some doozies back in the day.

Meanwhile, Hanzo had moved on to other things. It was as if, with his hair pulled back properly, he could focus once more on the tasks at hand… whatever those were when there were no missions and he’d just showered with his friend. He ventured a glance at the cowboy, who appeared to be lost in thought, staring out over the balcony. Here was the rugged outlaw, Jesse McCree, gunslinger and sharpshooter, dressed in his hateful father’s  _ yukata _ , finally doing justice to the beautiful blue of its cloth. Jesse smelled of Hanzo’s shampoo, of his soap, of him, in a way. From the outside, it could look quite scandalous indeed. He hated that his mind still processed everything in terms of how activities might appear to the outside world. 

“ _ Saké _ ?” He asked, as a way to break the oddly pregnant silence that had fallen. Hanzo knew the cowboy could and would not resist the temptation brought by alcohol. At least  _ that  _ stereotype was true. 

“If yer don’t mind, darlin’,” Jesse nodded, more than glad to accept any kind of offer for alcohol, just as predicted. One couldn’t be a world traveler without sampling the booze of every country and McCree was as close to a connoisseur as was appropriate for a man of his...pedigree. The cowboy tugged at the sleeve, careful with the delicate, yet strong fabric, admiring the color. It was very comfortable, the clothing and the situation. And now, the two friends would drink together. 

Hanzo gave a small nod and gestured for McCree to follow him back into his bedroom area. This, Jesse did without complaint. He was eager to see where his friend slept. It, like the rest of his living quarters, was decorated traditionally. The bed was low, industrial, but the spread was a deep crimson, rather like blood. 

“I would have preferred a  _ futon _ , but this, as it turns out, is quite comfortable,” Hanzo informed his friend as he caught the cowboy’s gaze. He crouched down to an ornate box in the corner, pushing the lid open to reveal a pile of things, various knick-knacks McCree wasn’t close enough to see. After a moment, he pulled out a medium-sized wooden box.

“Where’d ya get that?” Jesse asked, curious about the procurement of anything other than beer, whiskey, or bourbon. 

“It was a gift… from Mr. Winston,” he said, “as… a show of gratitude for my joining your numbers here.”

Hanzo opened the box. It held a large glass bottle, not unlike a western wine vessel. This was sealed and lying nestled in verdant velvet, with a mid-sized, ceramic  _ tokkuri _ (this, Jesse recognized from his perusal of alcohol over his years of service in Blackwatch) and two, shallow cups to go with, the traditional glasses to enjoy the rice wine. The set was very well-made and it had pleased the elder Shimada. Winston was a very thoughtful giant gorilla. He truly made most human beings seem beastly. 

“Don’t mind if I do,” Jesse rumbled, more than gleeful to share alcohol with his friend. Fine  _ saké _ was hard to come by and by the way Hanzo handled the box, this was definitely that. Rice wine was the drink of friends and partners, of business associates and of lovers. Go figure on that last one. Closeness and intimacy went hand-in-hand with this refined alcohol. 

“Well we will not do so standing in my bedroom, of all places,” Hanzo declared, making a sharp shooing motion toward the door. They would sit around his  _ kotatsu _ and watch the moon rise over the ocean, drinking their  _ saké  _ in peace, together, as friends. 

Jesse felt himself hurried out of Hanzo’s room proper and headed immediately toward the weird blanket-table. He plopped himself down next to it and watched his companion with rapt attention. He was very quiet, for once, which unnerved Hanzo, but the archer was sure he would soon strike up a conversation once more and so did not let the quietude get to him.

Since joining Overwatch, Hanzo had been virtually surrounded by all kinds of strange and noisy people, day in and day out. And more were coming. After ten years of solitude and exile, to which he’d condemned himself after consigning his brother to what he thought was a bloody grave, the clamor was a bit of a system shock. These quiet moments were precious, made all the more pleasant by McCree’s involvement. The room and base were just a place in which to live, but with  _ him _ here, Watchpoint Gibraltar had begun to feel like something… more. 


	3. drinks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shower, then laundry... and now alcohol. What could possibly go awry between two good friends?

“Settle yourself,” Hanzo instructed, gesturing at his  _ kotatsu _ . He himself did not sit, but gently placed the entire set, bottle,  _ tokkuri _ and both glasses upon the tabletop with delicate efficiency. “It is inelegant, but I must retrieve my hot-pot.”

The way the man bustled was hardly a bustle at all, but a smooth, almost cat-like motion. Nevertheless, McCree felt himself classifying it as bustling. From one of his cupboards, the archer retrieved the item in question, a cordless hot-pot. This, he filled with water from the tap and then finally (it felt like a dang eternity to the cowboy) he returned to the  _ kotatsu _ . 

Hanzo settled himself kitty corner to McCree’s position and set the hot-pot down. Opening the wine bottle, he poured about a third of its contents into the  _ tokkuri _ and settled it in the water. Pushing a couple of buttons, he set the water to warm and arranged the shallow glasses for easy pouring. The curve of his wrist and the smoothness of the pour caught Jesse’s eye and he thought Hanzo’s hand would look mighty fine wrapped around the handle of his revolver.

“It’s been a while since I had good  _ saké _ ,” admitted McCree almost sheepishly. Hanzo nodded, as if this did not surprise him. Something about that gesture wounded McCree. The cowboy hated the idea of the refined assassin thinking less of him because he was a grubby bounty hunter, but this was the life he’d chosen and the disdain, however friendly it might have become, was to be expected. They passed the few minutes it took to properly heat the contents of the  _ tokkuri _ in silence, both watching the water and wondering what to say. 

The moment Hanzo judged the beverage ready to pour, however, he once more moved with the bustling, cat-like grace and removed the vessel from its impromptu double boiler. His gesture seemed to convey that he wished he had a prettier vessel in which to heat the  _ saké _ , but needs must and he had already offered drinks to his friend. These, he was now pouring, delicately, into each small cup.

“Here,” said Hanzo, almost reverently, handing one of the shallow glasses to McCree. The cowboy took the offered cup gently. It was such a little thing. He understood enough about his friend’s native culture to realize why their beverage glasses were so tiny, in this case. He therefore didn’t feel the need to make an ass of himself by inquiring. Jesse wasn’t about to complain, either. The gesture was more about friendship and camaraderie than getting three sheets to the wind, anyway. 

“Thanks,” he said, keeping his voice at an appropriate level. Hanzo was such a quiet man--until he got upset, that is, or summoned his dragons, if Genji’s technique was anything to go by. Regrettably, McCree had yet to see the elder Shimada in action, but thankfully, Hanzo had offered to  _ show  _ him the ancient creatures. This excited him more than the booze, which was really saying something. 

Hanzo nodded, giving a small smile and grunt of approval at McCree’s handling technique. For a rough and tumble outlaw, Jesse had a delicate touch where necessary. Hanzo wondered, momentarily, what those hands might feel like… He shook his head and focused instead on raising the glass in a toast, suddenly aware of how much of a relic he must look like to the cowboy. Everything was traditionally decorated, right down to the man himself. Even his  _ guest _ was dressed appropriately. It came, he supposed, with being raised on tradition within an inch of his life. He wondered if any of that was off-putting to a man who regularly wore a belt buckle spelling an obscene acronym. 

Probably not. 

Some traditions stuck harder than others, especially in the presence of an observer, so he sipped the  _ saké  _ delicately. Had he been alone, he might have skipped the cups altogether, though knowing how things seemed to go with the cowboy present, that might not have been completely off the table. 

“Y’all make smooth liquor,” Jesse complimented. In cowboy lingo, the smoother the liquor, the better it was, regardless of the taste. Where flavor was unfamiliar, that went double. He smiled cheerily, the freckles on his cheeks highlighted by the blush thereupon.  _ Saké _ was not a strong drink (strength was another cowboy compliment), but right now,  _ machismo _ didn’t matter. Jesse tossed that shit out the window the moment he stepped across the threshold to the man’s room. 

Hanzo smiled as well, that damn cowboy’s grin as infectious as ever. He chuckled, lips parting to reveal his teeth, less a snarl than a genuine, mirth-filled grin. Jesse had seen the snarl; this was not the snarl. 

“This was not made in Japan,” said the elder Shimada. He lifted the bottle to confirm his suspicions, scanning the text on the bottom carefully. “Hon-ah-loo-loo,” he sounded it out carefully, shaking his head. “Its taste is different. I have had worse.”

“Honolulu?” McCree couldn’t hold back a light cackle. The idea of the two of them lounging in swim trunks, on beach furniture facing a wide, blue ocean, under palm trees, sipping  _ saké _ was just too much. “Hawaii’s always kinda had a pretty big Japanese population,” he reminded his friend, lifting the glass to his lips once more, “so maybe it’s a different  _ kind _ of authentic.”

Hanzo’s prominent brows rose in acknowledgement. He had never been to Hawaii himself, though he  _ had _ heard of some families moving there--many of them to escape the tyranny of  _ yakuza _ . A blush of shame flashed across his nose before he could think of something else to quell it. His mind refocused, instead on the postcards he had seen, depicting white, sandy beaches, blue, clear water and palm trees. 

All of America was a postcard, if what he’d seen and heard was true. He had no doubt that there was a darkness to it; all places had their shadows, else how would the light shine so brightly? The way McCree talked, it was sunshine and apple pie all rolled into one strange, topographically anomalous hodge-podge of cultures. The cowboy was a regular billboard for Americana. It was an honest wonder he had not taken to wearing a United States flag as a  _ serape _ . The thought brought  a chuckle from wet lips as he took another sip. 

“Authenticity,” he reasoned, “does not matter so much if you are drunk enough.”

“Amen to that, darlin’,” the cowboy agreed with his usual level of gusto and pluck. “To that end, mind if I help m’self to another round?”

He hoped that wasn’t too forward, suggesting he was  _ aiming _ to get plastered in the presence of someone so traditional and tightly laced. Something about it seemed so sinfully wrong, he almost had to scold himself for  _ wanting _ it so badly. It had been almost a year since Hanzo had joined their ranks as Overwatch slowly stitched itself back together and he had loosened up quite a bit since then, but to say the man still had his moments would have been generous. For example, sometimes, the way he looked at his brother unnerved McCree. He made a mental note to inquire about it later...much later.

Hanzo’s response was a mischievous smirk, or was it a knowing grin? Either way, it ended with him retrieving the  _ tokkuri _ once more and refilling the cowboy’s cup, before topping off his own. It seemed they had the same plan of attack with regards to this bottle. It was good for teammates to have synergy in all things. Stiff, he might have been. He was not deaf; the jokes about his lack of facial expressions did not escape the ears of the assassin. It was true, anyway. His vigilance was an eternal shield, a wall he’d built since youth, to hide what was inside. All that said, he was not without his flaws, the chinks in his seemingly impenetrable armor.

The things within would have gotten him killed, however. That upbringing, the testing, the training, the violence, the tradition, all of it had balled itself up inside him, sitting low in his gut like a chilly stone, cooling his very essence and keeping an icy hold upon his soul. Moments like these were rare and to be enjoyed, shower included. 

Jesse drank more, laughed a little, drank more, giggled a lot, and so on it went. The shots--for that’s what they had become--went down more and more smoothly as time passed. As did the smooth, clear liquid. Evidently, all the Overwatch veterans--save Jesse himself--thought  _ saké  _ was an appropriate welcoming gift. They weren’t, as it turned out, wrong. It was fortunate, too, because the alcohol content in  _ saké _ was not terribly high.  _ Fortunate indeed _ , Hanzo thought.

Somewhere in that warm haze of chuckles, Jesse actually leaned over and pressed his forehead to Hanzo’s shoulder. His mouth might have tilted forward against the bare, tattooed flesh. But he could not rightly recall that either of these things occurred, or in what order. He also didn’t recall when Hanzo had time to get up and retrieve the second bottle, or the third, or the two or three subsequent to those. Rice wine went down real smooth when you were with a good friend and there was such a  lightness between them here. 

Jokes that were barely funny, comments that didn’t make much sense all began to flow into one strangely coherent narrative. It was beauty in its rawest, most human form. Hanzo was warm from the shower, the alcohol, the cowboy’s weight on his shoulder, and becoming warmer by the minute. He couldn’t place when it happened, either, but somewhere along the river’s flow, they’d both abandoned the delicate little cups and had simply started taking turns with the final bottle--or, gourd, rather, the one that had hung about Hanzo’s waist. This one had missed out on the traditional warmth of the  _ tokkuri _ on the not-so-traditional hot-pot. The archer was eager to taste it after Jesse had his fuzzy lips on the rim.

“Did you still wish to meet the dragons?” Hanzo asked suddenly, voice low, prodding and conspiratorial. He certainly became more dramatic when tipsy. 

“Oh yeah!” Jesse had forgotten all about that promise. In his glee and full of good liquor, he would have forgotten completely without his friend’s teasing reminder. Thank goodness for honorable companionship, taking care to recall such an exciting prospect. “So they--they’re real… like real-real?”

Hanzo nodded, smiling at the absolute delight bubbling up from within the cowboy. It was plastered on his handsome face in the form of a lopsided, half-lidded, toothy grin. 

“They are really real,” he said, reassuring McCree of their existence. “I promise. But if you want to see them, sadly, you will have to get off me.”

“Oh, right,” Jesse chuckled, feigning composure when the only emotion radiating throughout his body was affection with a side of embarrassment. He sat up straight and shuffled his bum away. Hanzo smelled good. That was going to be a problem. It wasn’t the liquor that made him that way, either; the cowboy was sure of this. Hanzo Shimada had Jesse McCree wrapped around his finger, neat as the tattoo that wound its serpentine way up his arm. They were friends, though, so that was okay. 

In his haste to move, McCree had caused the sleeve of Hanzo’s  _ yukata _ to fall, revealing more of the tattoo. Hanzo tugged his arm all the way out and inspected it, as if it might have changed or shifted since the last time he laid eyes upon it. He lifted his gaze then, meeting the doe brown eyes of the inebriated cowboy. Momentarily, his own eyes closed, however, as he mustered the energy to summon the spirit beasts for which his family was known. 

For several seconds, nothing happened at all. Jesse’s gaze was locked on Hanzo’s arm and stillness fell on the entire room, but the quiet was, in itself, a happening. The cowboy felt the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand up as gooseflesh radiated outward through all his limbs. All at once, the blue ink began to glow, pulsing with chilly, electrical energy. Hanzo swallowed hard took in a deep breath. He was  _ not _ aiming to summon them in attack mode and so he had to be in a state of complete calm. 

Slowly, and then all at once, the dragons emerged from some space between here and the next life, emanating from Hanzo’s arm. It was as though his tattoo was merely a conduit, or a gate through which they could pass. And pass they did, two dog-sized heads, not quite mammalian or reptilian, horned and fierce, rising and swirling outward in a dance of light and energy. McCree was rooted in place, eyes wide and locked on these beasts that were the sacred keepers of the Shimada clan. 

Once they had emerged completely, they seemed to take on a more solid form, though it was abundantly clear the pair of them were anything but corporeal. Jesse couldn’t see through them and yet they obscured neither his vision nor any other sense. He didn’t dare move, even as one came to rest its head on Hanzo’s shoulder, body curling about this way and that. Its twin had occupied itself hover-crawling along the walls, inspecting the place, wary of the stranger. 

Jesse himself was in silent awe, his soft eyes wide with wonder and amazement. The alcohol had slowed him to a mental crawl and he sat silently for what seemed like an eternity before reaching toward the shiny scales of the one wrapped around his companion. His voice was malfunctioning something fierce and all he could muster was a quiet, crackling moan of astonishment. 

“ _ Kare wa watashi no yūjindearu _ ,” he muttered softly to the dragon,  _ he is my friend _ , absently stroking the scales. It was a strange, long beast, the head about the size of a large dog. Glowing, colorless eyes watched McCree intently. They shifted in hue from the white to a warm green. “ _ Anata wa kare ni fushinsetsudeatte wa narimasen, _ ” he added,  _ you must not be unkind to him _ .

The dragon’s head rose a bit, preening perhaps? A second later, it leapt, untangling itself from around its master, to swirl around McCree just a moment before using his head as an unnecessary springboard to meet its twin. 

This made the cowboy hoot with laughter. His surprisingly fluent grasp of Japanese had been washed away, ironically, by the  _ saké _ . He clapped enthusiastically and watched the beast go. It was a spectacular light show, a soft glow following it on the way up, like the trail of a comet. 

McCree was so far beyond delighted that words failed him. Gestures did not, however, and he leaned over to wrap both arms tightly about Hanzo, hugging him in a vice grip. 

The hug caught Hanzo completely by surprise, which was not an easy feat, given his training. It also caught the attention of both dragons, who were keenly attuned to the assassin’s emotions. They watched, intense gazes boring into McCree until the archer gave in to the gesture. 

Even dressed in Shimada clothing, smelling of the archer’s products, the cowboy had an ingrained scent to him, one that Hanzo had come to appreciate, or perhaps even adore. The man’s body was warm and his embrace was strong. It took all of Hanzo’s training and more to resist melting right there and doing something utterly foolish. How improper.

“They’re awful fancy,” said the cowboy with his face pressed into the side of Hanzo’s neck. Once again, words failed him beyond that compliment, but that didn’t stop him trying to express the elation he felt at the privilege of seeing the guardian spirits of the Shimada clan. It was a privilege even his alcohol-addled brain couldn't take lightly, because he understood fully the danger they posed to the man’s enemies. “Real pretty,” he mumbled, adding something else that was not audible before sliding his arms off and leaning away. 

A protest at the recession of Jesse’s warmth died in Hanzo’s throat before it could form itself and embarrass the man. He was having all sorts of lapses in judgement this evening. Each one seemed to silently enrage him just that much more.  _ We are just friends, _ his innermost self insisted,  _ because to be anything more would be disastrous. Remember last time? _

Of course he remembered last time. How could he forget when the reminder of it was attached to his knees? Hanzo laid a hand absently on one thigh, recalling what it felt like to have flesh below his fingers, rather than cold titanium superalloy. 

“They have protected my family for generations,” Hanzo said suddenly, when he realized McCree was staring at him, waiting for more of an explanation on the dragons. Or that’s what it looked like the cowboy wanted. What was really going on in that wild head of his was anyone’s guess, even Jesse’s at this point. “These dragons did not leave me when I… abdicated. I would not be alive without them.”

Now, Jesse McCree was not a dull man, by any means, but the word “abdicated” flew a bit over his vocabulary at that precise moment and a brow rose. He knew Hanzo was no longer affiliated with the Shimada and he also knew that such a thing--being at odds with one’s own  _ yakuza _ family--was potentially dangerous, deadly even… but he did not, evidently, fully grasp what had actually happened and what Hanzo left behind. 

The dragons were far too sparkly and interesting for him to pursue the matter any further, however, and he tilted his body all the way over until he was lying on his back, watching the glowing, blue creatures undulate this way and that. They weren’t enormous, per se, but he had a feeling they  _ could _ be. 

“Amazin’.”

McCree’s eyes were on the creatures, wide with awe. Hanzo’s eyes were on the cowboy. A quiet joy burned softly in his chest. He wanted McCree to like his dragons. Of course, who wouldn’t? He could think of a certain German knight who would have been thrilled beyond words to meet them. They were impressive creatures, after all. But the cowboy’s delight… something about it made Hanzo more pleased than he’d been in years, truly proud, for once, of the legacy--some part of it--his family had left him. 

The beasts split, then, one clinging to the frame just above the double doors that led outward, eyes never leaving the two men below. The other landed just shy of the sharpshooter’s head. This made the cowboy laugh aloud and turn himself over to prop his upper body up so he was lying on his stomach with elbows supporting him, like a kid playing with his action figures on the floor in the living room, watching afternoon television. He didn’t reach out to touch the dragon, watching it instead with fascination. 

The piercing eyes of the dragon flicked all across the cowboy’s face, taking in every detail. A soft rumbling, sharper than a purr, but less threatening than a growl filled the space between them. Hanzo shifted to sit closer to where Jesse had stretched himself out. Gently, he reached over and grasped the cowboy’s flesh wrist and tugged softly. He felt a slight tenseness, which quickly abated when Jesse’s mind registered who was touching him and to what end. He he switched his weight to his cybernetic elbow and allowed Hanzo to slowly guide his hand forward toward the dragon’s snout. 

“Like this,” Hanzo whispered, lacing his own fingers between McCree’s and then gently turning it over, so that Jesse’s open palm was lying upward, supported by his own underneath it. They were fairly holding hands at this point, but the archer reasoned it was to keep Jesse’s hand safe, in case the dragon decided it did not approve of the cowboy’s presence. Spiritually connected as he was with these dragons, he knew precisely how they felt about the cowboy, but he had to come up with some logical explanation why his fingers were laced with McCree’s. 

After observing for a moment, the dragon lowered its head into the man’s open palm, running its scales and strips of impossibly soft, ethereal fur against flesh. It had some weight to it, which was surprising to the cowboy, considering he could see right through it one moment--but then it was solid the next. He blinked several times, wondering if the alcohol had anything to do with  _ that _ phenomenon. 

The scales were smooth and fine, pressed together like a fish’s, but absolutely rigid. The fur was yet another wild sensation, intensely fine and thick, like the dog he had as a kid, but also like the ragdoll-furred cat his mother had loved so much. It was a combination he’d not soon forget, but if someone asked him, he’d have been completely unable to describe. 

Hanzo leaned closer as he guided McCree’s gesture. He didn’t dare speak, his mouth was too close to the flesh of Jesse’s ear, of his jaw and neck. If he opened his lips to say a word, there was absolutely no telling what might have come out and he could not risk jarring so sacred a moment by saying something horribly lewd. He guided Jesse’s fingers--mostly to distract himself--to scratch at the base of the beast’s twisted horns. The creature’s rumble increased in frequency and volume, actually trilling quietly as it pressed further into the hand.

“ _ Kare wa anata ga suki da _ …”  _ He likes you _ , Hanzo whispered, surprised at his own frankness. McCree didn’t catch a word of that, still trying to comprehend what the dragon reminded him of--animal-wise. His first comparison had been a cat, but somehow saying so aloud would have been inappropriate. These beasts were so much more than cats, or anything to which the cowboy might have compared them. He stayed silent instead and allowed the presence and pressure of Hanzo’s hand to guide his, scratching at a spot the beast seemed to enjoy.

“Huh?” Jesse grunted, suddenly registering his friend had spoken.

“Ah, my apologies, I said that he likes you,” the archer amended, feeling that hatefully familiar flush flash across sharp cheekbones once more. 

“Me?” McCree echoed, disbelieving something of this significance would want anything to  _ do _ with an ingrate like him, much less that it might  _ like  _ him.  _ Ingrate _ , the word echoed in his head suddenly, a familiar, harsh tone that he hadn’t thought of in years. It snapped him back to reality so harshly, he nearly jerked away. The only thing that stopped him was Hanzo’s warm breath on his ear and continued speech. 

“The twin has not attacked you yet, either,” said Hanzo, sounding pleased. He was smiling, but Jesse couldn’t see it, which was fine with him because dammit all the man had a reputation to uphold. These slips and lapses in judgment would put him and everything he loved in danger. Again. 

“Yet don’t sound like the odds are completely in my favor,” McCree admitted, tilting his gaze over his shoulder to eye Hanzo, who was so close he could have kissed the man. But why would he want to do that? They were having such a good time and ending the evening with an arrow in his remaining organic eye was somewhat less than ideal. “A man don’t gamble, Hanzo, unless he  _ knows _ he can win… it just ain’t wise.”

“Then it is not a gamble,” Hanzo shot back. Jesse tilted his head enough so he could lookinto Hanzo’s eyes with his own. Meeting the eyes of a dangerous beast had consequences, McCree knew, but Hanzo was no ordinary beast. He was a dragon and those coal-dark eyes of his were all brutal honesty. With him, you knew where you stood, and no bones about it. For example, Hanzo was hardly fond of the cowboy when he had first answered his brother’s call to join them at the Gibraltar base. It had taken weeks for Genji to convince Hanzo that McCree was, in fact, the best shot on base.

It had taken one fan of the hammer to prove it to the archer, who grudgingly conceded that Jesse McCree was, in fact, the best shot he’d ever seen--what he  _ said _ was “you are skilled” and then he’d skulked off, Genji trailing behind. Jesse hadn’t even  _ shown _ him the Dead-Eye. 

Meeting the cowboy’s gaze, Hanzo smiled slightly at the rugged man. His hand slid off of McCree’s as he leaned back against the wall, stretching his legs out before him. 

“ _ Neko-san _ ,” he rumbled, “if my dragon did not like you, he would have let you know.”

“Guess I could’ve figured that,” the cowboy admitted sheepishly. He was more intoxicated by the thrill of the dragons and their handler than he was by the alcohol itself, which was saying something, given how much he’d had of the rice wine.

The beast by the cowboy’s hand dashed through the air, in a flash of blue light to lay its head in Hanzo’s lap, body curled nearby, tail draped this way and that, swishing and flicking like a pleased feline. A dangerous comparison, but McCree had nothing else to go by. The beast lifted itself momentarily to press its forehead to Hanzo’s pronounced brow before Hanzo began to stroke its back. 

What he had not shared with the cowboy was that the dragons’ fondness reflected that of their host. He could have told McCree, surely; it couldn’t have harmed anything. The restrained warrior within him somehow convinced the  _ ninja  _ to keep it to himself, however. He shifted so the dragon could wrap itself more fully around his body, his smile firm and constant in this calm setting. As his gaze drifted over the cowboy’s languid body, he felt such warmth in his chest--certainly due to the  _ saké _ \--which he had come to anticipate in the presence of the gunslinger. Only a friend could have gotten so close to  _ his _ dragons, or to him with the dragons present, for that matter. All at once, his thoughts were arrested by a tug at the corner of his  _ yukata _ . 

Suffering an extreme lack of motivation to move, induced by the alcohol, the dragons and his general sense of comfort and ease, McCree stayed right where he was, but was thrilled when the twin dragon ghosted over him to reach its master, grasping the man’s robe. Jesse shifted just enough to lie on his side, all the better to keep an eye on Hanzo. That’s what he really wanted to do anyway, just watch the other man, who was fascinating at this moment and most others. 

The dragon that tugged at the cloth of Hanzo’s robe was acting more like a kitten than some great, scary, guardian beast and this brought peals of gravelly laughter from the cowboy’s mouth and genuine tears from his eyes. His face was going to hurt later from all this mirth.    
Hanzo found the sight of his friend, so completely gone, melting in laughter, to be completely and utterly ridiculous. His laughter was bordering on hysterical giggles, which made the assassin laugh himself. Whatever the cowboy found funny, it was making  _ him _ an amusing spectacle. The Shimada shook his head, calming himself enough to speak.

“You look ridiculous, Jesse,” he pointed out. The dragon with its head in his lap slid away to jump on its twin, inciting a mild tussle that took to the air. It was as if the pair of them did not understand the native laws of gravity and so did not have to abide thereby. McCree’s eyes were once more on the dragons and Hanzo’s were on McCree, watching the poor man dissolve into a fit of teary, helpless laughter. 

For his part, the cowboy didn’t know what was making him laugh so hard either. Intoxication and cat-dragons weren’t enough; he knew that much. It was something else, something deeper. An all-consuming guffaw rose from within his barrel chest and brought a fresh wave of tears to his eyes. It was as good as a solid cry and wouldn’t leave him feeling hungover. 

“ _ You _ look ridiculous,” he shot back, once he was finally able to string words to form a sentence. He plopped back to stare at the ceiling once more. The  _ ninja  _ rolled his eyes, the grin stuck to his face almost as permanently as his usual scowl or grimace of melancholy. It was a nice change of pace. Watching his friend come apart was better in real life than it was in Hanzo’s dreams, though in this case, somewhat less scandalous. Not by much.

McCree was a mess. His cheeks were red, the freckles pronounced by the flush, his chest was heaving and Hanzo’s father’s  _ yukata _ was sliding off and being pushed about from the man’s movement as he rolled about. It was exceedingly undignified, especially considering the garment had belonged to Shimada Sojiro. Hanzo couldn’t help a self-satisfied snort at that one, grasping the bottle of  _ saké  _ and raising it to his lips. It was empty and he set it aside with a disappointed groan. 

“You drank me out of my  _ saké _ , cow man.”

“You offered, dragon man,” responded the American with gusto. Hanzo’s hair was tied back, but there were wisps hanging free as it had begun to dry. These framed his face in a dark, ethereal halo and brought a somewhat softer smile to McCree’s red face. He was absolutely enchanted by this man. It wasn’t the  _ saké _ , he’d figured that out by now. To that end, he sought to move closer and propelled himself upward, crawling awkwardly toward his friend. This amused Hanzo, who let out another drunken chortle. All at once, however, McCree’s face was very close, having little sense of personal space in such an inebriated state. Hanzo wondered momentarily, in yet another lapse, just what those lips tasted like. 

“Jesse…” He mumbled, tasting the name if he could not have the lips, wondering if he looked as ridiculous to McCree as the cowboy did to  _ him _ . The man himself grunted, with an implied question mark at the end. Jesse remembered the days of his youth, on car trips with his mother and sister, sticking googly eyes on his chin and lying in Isabel’s lap in the back seat, making her cry with laughter as he made inverted faces at her. The memory was fond, if far off. This was that sort of joviality, something he hadn’t experienced since… ‘til now, anyway. 

Rather than responding to the cowboy, whose thoughts were already far away, Hanzo mulled the man’s first name around in his mind. It was fitting, really. The name slid like the man’s oozing charm. There was nothing he wanted to say, nothing other than McCree’s given name. It seemed like enough, but he managed:

“You are an idiot.”

Reaching out, Hanzo brushed several pieces of McCree’s hair out of his face. Jesse felt the tingle of Hanzo’s fingers long after they left his flesh. He resisted the urge to reach up and touch where the assassin had and opted instead to settle himself down next to the man, leaning against the wall in much the same manner. 

“That the best you can come up with?” The cowboy taunted his companion. He didn’t fully understand what he was doing at this point, or why he insisted on this odd, teasing game, but Jesse couldn’t seem to help himself and he was too far gone for reason to take the reigns. 

“Tsch,” Hanzo scoffed, rolling his eyes, “I did not realize you wanted an insult the size of your states.”

American egos. McCree boasted of one without opening his mouth. That smile of his was enough. The belt buckle, massive gun, and hat were just bonuses. The only thing the cowboy was missing was a speaker attached to his chestplate that would blare the national anthem of the United States whenever he came close. Hanzo had found it abrasive, at the outset. Now, it was endearing. He knew exactly what he was getting into when he continued. 

“Your ego is not exactly a small target,  _ Neko-san _ . Why waste words?”

Jesse guffawed loudly as he was verbally corralled by the other man. He was pleased with Hanzo’s wit and willingness to go right for the jugular. It was refreshing and, moreover, made their shared time just that much more pleasant. Hanzo was surprisingly easy to be around. 

“Hey, that reminds me,” Jesse said suddenly, pushing off the wall so he could meet Hanzo’s eyes, “what’re their names?” 

It was a simple enough question. Clearly it must have been so, if the cowboy’s addled mind formulated. Jesse McCree was sharp as a tack, wits about him at all times in battle. Downtime brought about a completely different animal, however, a slower, more inquisitive creature. He took in his surroundings once more, as if he’d not been in them all evening. 

Names? The dragons! Of course! Evidently, McCree’s mind was not the only one working slowly. Hanzo flushed, embarrassed that he had completely forgotten to properly introduce his friend to them by name. He straightened up a bit, looking back toward the Shimada clan guardian spirits, gamboling carelessly across the walls and ceiling of his quarters. He had freed them in this space a few times before, if only in an effort to make these barracks--however well-outfitted--more like home. 

“Arashi,” he responds, gesturing toward the dragon being pursued, shifting his indication only slightly to point at the pursuer, “Eisuke.”

Jesse nodded solemnly, knowing that names meant much in every culture but his own and he felt obligated to pay respect to that, much as he could whilst plastered. The world swam around him, pleasantly. He wondered if it was the type of alcohol. Jesse could remember doing tequila shots with his former commander. The memory of how much booze  _ that _ guy could put away made him shudder. The way Reyes’s lips had curled ‘round the mouth of the bottle--any bottle, really--made him groan. Hanzo creaked a brow upward at the sound and Jesse suddenly had to cover for his obscene memory-imagination.

“Did ya name ‘em yerself or...did they, y’know, come with names?” McCree figured, quite honestly, that they were ancient names, passed down through the generations of Shimada to wield them, but it never hurt to ask. Anyway, he liked Hanzo’s voice. 

The  _ ninja  _ shook his head. The motion had loosed a few hairs from his ponytail. These he sought to blow out of his face, with little effect. The worthless gesture amused McCree, but he really wanted to hear more about the spirit dragons. Hanzo seemed to be in thought, as if gathering himself for an excellent tale. As a cowboy, McCree was more than ready for it and tilted his body to pay better attention as the dragons tussled overhead. 

“I did not name them,” his head swiveled back and forth as he sucked his teeth, slowly deciding whether or not to loose this torrid tale upon the inebriated man next to him. Jesse seemed to be all ears, but what would have stopped him bolting from the room once the assassin’s past came to the surface. Those memories were best left trapped, sealed in a locked cask at the back of Hanzo’s mind. “They are spirits who, when you are to be trusted with the responsibility of their names, will give them to you. And you are bound.”

Jesse sensed more of a story behind that one, but pain as well, and so wisely let it be. There was too much good happening here to ruin it with such prodding. His sloshed brain was moving on almost immediately anyway, taking the crosshairs off Hanzo.    
“What if ya  _ had _ t’name ‘em?” He asked, this question much lighter, easier to answer. “Like, right now?”

The moment the question left his lips, however, Jesse balked at its insensitivity. Given the ancient history and importance of the Shimada clan and their guardian spirits, such a question was probably incredibly offensive. He muttered an apology and hid his face behind one big hand, groaning. Hanzo stared a moment before the cowboy retracted the question. A small smile crept over his face then. Somehow, McCree was even more endearing when embarrassed. With a gentle chuckle, Hanzo crawled forward onto the floor and lay down, his feet facing the wall, head facing the door.

He didn’t know why he’d done this, only that it felt right. He knew Jesse wouldn't judge him for it. In fact, the cowboy mimicked the gesture momentarily, lying next to him, his body facing the opposite direction, their heads adjacent on the floor. 

“I would not name them after you, if that is what you were after,” Hanzo scolded playfully. 

“Jesse,” said Jesse, “is an awful name for a dragon.” He punctuated this by flopping his arms around like noodles, indicating the sort of dragon who would bear the name. “Maybe somethin’ like… huh, what would  _ I _ name a dragon?”

Not that he would ever possess such a power. But the thought was intriguing. Hanzo turned to lie on his side, facing the cowboy, amused at the lighthearted train of thought. McCree had so many layers, walls, barriers… and the others thought  _ he _ was closed off. That was laughable. His only barrier was discretion. The cowboy was a babbling brook of information, upbeat humor, passion and, on occasion, a fathomless depth. It was this depth which Hanzo desired to explore. It was fascinating. 

“Do the Scottish have protective guardians?” Hanzo asked, half teasing, half curious. McCree had made damn sure that the archer understood he was 100% American (as if that wasn’t obvious), but had spoken briefly of the Scottish heritage from his father’s side when Hanzo had tripped haphazardly over his surname.

“Yeah,” McCree giggled, pinching Hanzo’s ear “they’re called bagpipes.” 

It wasn’t that Jesse disliked the bagpipes, but when played improperly,  _ no one  _ wanted to hear them. Hanzo scoffed, wincing only a little as the cowboy gave his ear a gentle tug. 

“Noisy and obnoxious,” he chuckled, “how appropriate.”

It was more than a little entertaining to poke fun at the American. He could be noisy, certainly. He liked to talk plenty, but if Hanzo was being honest, it wasn’t so bad. One of their newest recruits, the young Ms. Song talked much more and, in the assassin’s opinion, said far less… but he suspected her chatter was a smokescreen as well, for perhaps a different kind of pain. There was just something about McCree that irritated and delighted the archer to the perfect degree. He was maddening. 

Jesse shifted again to reposition his body so that he was lying next to Hanzo. He inched closer, reaching out to touch soft skin, unable to resist the overpowering urge to be as close as humanly possibly to the stoic man. Much of Hanzo’s chest was exposed, due to their rolling and laughing and the cowboy was delighted and warm. It was a terribly wonderful combination. 

Hot to the touch and smooth, Hanzo’s flesh felt like soft fire underneath McCree’s fingers. Hanzo took a deep breath, unsure whether or not his friend could hear his heartbeat quicken as the cowboy’s fingers danced over his chest. It was not enough to allow the man to touch him. He had to reciprocate and one-up the man. Hanzo Shimada was never second best. He rested his hand upon Jesse’s and held if close to his flesh, giving the cowboy yet another smile. 

“I like seein you smile like that. ’m beginnin’ t’think you were savin’ all them for  _ me _ ,” McCree drawled.

“Nonsense, cowboy,” Hanzo shot back. His tone was stern, but the smile never left. It was almost a relief to see the man so happy. Jesse didn’t know everything about this man’s life, or even a small fraction of it, but what he’d seen and the time they’d spent together as Overwatch agents had told the cowboy all he  _ needed _ to know about this man’s character. 

“Then where’dya hide ‘em all, huh?” Jesse croaked amiably. He could feel his own heartbeat pick up, slamming in his chest to the rhythm of a song to which he hadn’t danced in ages. He pressed his palm forward a little more forcefully, as if to feel whether Hanzo’s heart was doing the same. He was warm and drunk and this place smelled good. 

Hanzo’s room was incredibly serene at all times. He demanded it to be so and evidently with good reason. This felt…. Right. Jesse was painfully charming, with his smiling eyes, wrinkles just beginning to catch hold at the outer corners, and a wicked mouth out of which some of the strangest phrases Hanzo had ever heard often spilled carelessly. 

Lying on his own floor, face-to-face with a new friend, close enough to touch--currently  _ being _ touched--Hanzo was entirely out of his element, bewildered as to how he’d allowed things to get this far and frustrated they’d yet to go further. 

“Jesse,” the Shimada said again, voice low as he held the other man’s hand and gaze. “Are you going to do something, or will you continue to make me wait?”

It took Hanzo’s softly-spoken words for the dense cowboy to formally recognize what his hind brain had been screeching all along. Hanzo was still a few inches away, so McCree had to shift up on one arm and move carefully--as if afraid to startle some wild animal--to place a sloppy, half-prepared kiss on the corner of Hanzo’s mouth. 

It was just like McCree to do something like that, though, half-drunkenly kiss his friend in a warm room, full of  _ saké  _ and fondness. Just like Jesse...little control, a whole lot of mess, way too much thinking and too little planning. Just like the cowboy. It was perfect. Hanzo slid a hand around behind Jesse’s head, lacing his fingers through the thick, soft chestnut of the man’s hair. He didn’t take control, but guided the cowboy a little before pressing deeper into a much more artful kiss. It was warm and spicy, tasting of the man’s cigars and the drinks they’d just shared. And something else. As his tongue pressed forward, Hanzo  was presented with a unique sort of texture within McCree’s mouth. He made a mental note to inquire after the bauble he was sure he could feel therein.  _ A piercing _ , he thought.  _ Such a wild youth you must have had, cowboy. _

When the archer returned the gesture, Jesse knew he’d made the right choice. Good thing, too, because having to explain to Doc Ziegler why he had a bellyful of arrows would not have been easy. He reveled in the chance he’d taken, gleeful it had been accepted, the icy fingers of fear that had been prickling at his spine quickly retreating as Hanzo pulled away and didn’t gut him. The Shimada had even used  _ tongue _ . 

Satisfied for the moment, Hanzo was still unsure of what he was getting himself into, a hand having come up to rest on his lips, as though he could feel where McCree had been. He’d not expected it to be so thrilling and freeing. Hanzo was instantly horrified by what he’d done and simultaneously titillated, glad it was McCree.  _ What do you think, father? _ Hanzo thought venomously.  _ You cannot take anything from me now _ . No words came, however, as he watched McCree with wide eyes and blown pupils. 

Jesse swallowed hard. Had Hanzo meant this? He surely had not intended to make the cowboy’s heart race painfully in the confines of his chest, nor to make his mind wander to deep, warm, sensual places. Certainly not.

“Would you oblige me with another one o’ them, darlin’?”

Hanzo didn’t give a verbal response. He simply leaned forward to close the gap again, pulling McCree closer by the back of his neck. At some point, they’d have to get off the floor, but for now the most important thing was to keep whatever they had going. The rhythm was fairly simple, but being played by amateurs, two men still trying to figure each other out in an environment that, while comfortable, was hardly ideal. They were still soldiers, after all, agents of peace and warriors. They were not civilians. They had other responsibilities. 

And neither man was stopping. How far would this go? Jesse’s mind was already moving to the next step and his hand reach out, unbidden, to grasp haphazardly at Hanzo’s lapel. The second kiss tasted better than the first as he tugged at the archer’s clothing. When Hanzo pulled away and sat up, McCree’s heart momentarily sank into his gut, an icy ball.  _ I’ve gone too far _ . 

But the cowboy refused to be deterred, mimicking the action and sitting up next to Hanzo. He crawled forward to stay close to the man, feeling the dizzying spin of the room as he did so, the blood rushing to his head and the alcohol right along with it. This time, when their lips met, it was upright and they were properly oriented to extend the intimacy.

“You… have a piercing on your tongue,” Hanzo’s brain finally caught up and was able to tilt itself, spewing some of its contents out his mouth, which had until just then, been occupied. The cowboy chuckled, vision soft around the edges, whole body ablaze with memories of the archer’s touch. He nodded then and stuck his tongue out in the most lewd, sensual way he could have possibly managed. 

“Holdover from my younger days…” He admitted, no longer embarrassed about the ball’s presence on his tongue, relishing the knowledge of what it could  _ do _ . Hanzo shook his head and laughed through his nose. Of course McCree’s tongue was pierced. Of course. While Hanzo was appraising his friend, the Jesse was doing much the same. 

Between all the rolling and shifting around and McCree’s mischievous, wandering hands, Hanzo’s hair had more or less fallen completely out, his gold ribbon discarded nearby. What a sight he made,  _ pretty as a painting of our Lady _ , thought the cowboy blasphemously. 

Appearance was the very last thing on the archer’s addled mind as he grasped  _ Jesse’s  _ hair instead, pulling the man closer by the brown strands. The rough handling brought a moan from the cowboy that was soon swallowed up by Hanzo’s hungry kisses. It wasn’t just one kiss, McCree decided, but many, many kisses. Some were deep and long, some were quick and violent, all of them were from a man who was starving for it. 

Something had receded within Hanzo, some dam had given way and poured forth its pent-up contents. Jesse was the lucky recipient. He kissed until he was sure he drew blood, or at least bruised and, for the moment, could kiss no more, leaving him breathing heavily against the cowboy’s neck. He just needed to be close. There were no words, so he said none, just holding on, catching his breath.

At this point, McCree was almost overwhelmed by what was happening. It was all so fast. Even being this close, with Hanzo hanging onto him, breathing on his neck, the cowboy was nearly overloaded. It was too little and too much at the same time. There was no happy medium. Jesse felt he had given into his baser instincts a little too quickly, but for now Hanzo didn’t seem to mind. He just hoped that when they woke up tomorrow with hangovers and regret hovering ‘round like buzzards--but that didn’t bear thinking of now, did it?

“Jesse,” Hanzo sighed, exhaustion threatening at the corners of his mind. He wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. Endurance was just one of many things for which the Shimada trained. He pressed kisses to the other man’s skin wherever he could reach, desperate to show the strength of the affection running just beneath his flesh. McCree was some kind of mad genius or total, lucky idiot, but he was sweet and strong and Hanzo had completely fallen. His small kisses weren’t enough, nor were the big ones. It was only a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited hastily at 2 am, this chapter is one of my favorites simply for the progression and pace--also the way Jesse gushes over the dragons. What a precious dweeb he is.
> 
> EDIT: A WONDERFUL friend informed me that the serving of sake is somewhat different from our previous narrative. I've endeavored to fix it! <3


	4. precipice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few too many drinks and the illusion of friendship alone cannot be maintained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW AF, people. This is "THE SEX CHAPTER"... please enjoy.

The cowboy found himself tilting his head and torso to allow Hanzo easier access to anything and everything he wanted. The  _ yukata _ was barely on him anymore and only really managed to cover his groin where it pooled about his thick waist. Jesse was hard, hot, and buzzed, the haze of alcohol only making the situation soft around the  _ edges _ , nowhere else. 

Hanzo was all angles and taut muscle, a little salty and heaving, doing his best to maintain composure, but still needing to press himself as close to McCree as possible. 

He was nearly straddling the man by this point, his own clothing only a bit more effective at covering his  _ own _ nakedness. He wasn’t sure what part of him was fighting harder, his training, or the desire to tear the cowboy’s clothing off and rub against him like a beast in rut. His thoughts had no direction, other than forward, no sense other than  _ more, more, more _ . Hanzo allowed his hands, his mouth, and the rest of his body to do the talking for words that would not come. 

Soon, McCree’s mischievous digits began finding better purchase in Hanzo’s hair, on the back of his neck, sliding down his back and pushing his  _ yukata _ the rest of the way off both shoulders. The movements came naturally as breathing, which was odd, since this wasn’t a “natural” thing for two men, who were really just friends, to do. Was it?

A small gasp tumbled haphazardly out of Hanzo once McCree’ worked him free of his clothing, leaving the Shimada exposed and completely in the cowboy’s very capable hands. For a moment, the assassin’s mind snapped back into its normal state of paranoia and assessed the situation. Open window,  _ not good _ . Open doors,  _ worse _ . Dragons,  _ summoned and watching _ . 

The analysis snapped off like a hard light switch as his body took back over, grasping Jesse by the wrists and guiding his hands around the archer’s waist. There was almost nothing between them now, bare chests pressed hard together, heaving and panting quietly, sweat dancing from one side to the other, fuzzy and smooth, scarred and immaculate, tattooed and bare. 

“Wait!” Hanzo said, pulling away with more force than intended, panting, eyes wide. He swallowed hard before glancing over toward the couch. His guardian spirits were curled around each other, resting in a coiled pile, serene, intense eyes scanning the scene before them with no judgment either way. Dragons,  _ summoned and watching _ .

“Eh?” Jesse stopped, of course, following Hanzo’s gaze immediately, assuming his friend had seen something that was a threat to them or the Gibraltar base. The ice that had shot down his spine at the moment Hanzo had demanded he hold back melted instantly, however, as the cowboy realized just what it was that garnered the archer’s attention and concern. Jesse had completely forgotten about the dragons in favor of the one in his arms and was just now putting together the completely logical assumption that Hanzo Shimada did not want his family’s sacred guardians to watch him paw at a filthy westerner. Or… anyone, probably. 

With uncanny grace, Hanzo leaned further into Jesse and stretched forth his tattooed arm, mumbling something quiet that McCree couldn’t decipher. There was a rush of wind that threatened to knock the pair over and then a bright azure glow lit the room. Energy crackled as the pair of sacred beasts returned to their master in a whirl of waving light.

“Aww,” McCree bemoaned their return with some mischief, “...kinda like an audience.”

It wasn’t a complete lie, though it was an appreciation more in concept, than in practice. It was, in fact, moderately embarrassing to allow  _ that _ particular kink to slip in front of Hanzo. He didn’t think groping Hanzo in front of his family’s sacred, ancestral guardian spirits was  _ completely _ disrespectful, just maybe a little. 

“Not now,” Hanzo whispered, his hands resting against McCree’s chest. He heaved a long sigh, pressing tightly to Jesse once more. He hoped the cowboy understood the “now” part of his response, subtly admitting he’d something of an exhibitionist streak in  _ him _ as well, though Hanzo wasn’t sure  _ his _ wasn’t born of familial resentment and spending more than half of his life closeted. 

In defiance, filled with desire, he tilted his head up and grabbed McCree almost roughly, guiding the man’s lips with a hand on the back of his head, fisted in his hair, to meet his mouth someplace between. Jesse was trapped in his vice-like grip and goaded into a crushing kiss, before the cowboy could offer suggestion, question, or commentary. He’d be bruised tomorrow, most likely, but those marks would be a physical reminder of an excellent evening. He wasn’t  _ too _ drunk, so he’d remember this and his hangover wouldn’t stop him asking for another round and so, like with anything else in his life, Jesse McCree tossed his whole heart and soul into the endeavor. 

It was impossible to consider anything but what was right before them. Tomorrow could wait, because need, like a wildfire, was consuming Hanzo, eating him alive inch by agonizing inch. Slowly, he began to lean backward, pulling McCree down after him. The floor was chilly on his now-bare back, but it now served to highlight the heat between him and his cowboy-friend.  _ Cowboyfriend _ , he thought to himself, addled and amused,  _ I will have to keep that one for a later time _ . 

McCree braced himself with strong arms on either side of Hanzo’s body. Their lips stayed pressed together and soon, Jesse found himself between Hanzo’s legs, rolling his body against the other man’s. His hips were grinding mercilessly forward with very little pause. Between presses, he could hear such pleasant sounds emanating from his friend’s relatively occupied lips, he didn’t  _ want _ to stop. 

Everything McCree did was overwhelming, but still on the edge of not enough. What the cowboy did to him, it was unreal. Obscene, really. But finally,  _ finally  _ Hanzo was in a position to do something about it, and so he did. He held on tight to the back of the cowboy’s neck, repeating his name with an almost embarrassing amount of desperation. He was pinned, but hardly helpless and he’d studied McCree long enough to understand what would set him off. 

McCree shifted himself to lean on one elbow, reaching down between them to brush cloth aside and grasp at Hanzo. He palmed the archer and began feeling his half-hardness, emboldened by the noises the other man was making. A sharp gasp added itself to the symphony the moment Jesse’s palm found its target. 

Hanzo was presently erect, threatening to leak against his undergarments. McCree’s hand was so firm, metallic and a bit chilly, it shocked the archer into yet another gasp and moan, this one in something of a weakly yelped combination. Jesse liked that sound too, appreciating even more the motion of a gentle buck that came with it. 

“Sorry, darlin’,” the cowboy apologized (the polite thing to do, given the situation), “you okay?”

Hanzo nodded against McCree’s neck, unable to trust his treacherous throat. His hands stayed holding tightly to whatever they could reach, the back of Jesse’s neck, his thick shoulders, around his back. No matter where he put his hands, they would surely leave marks, with the pressure he was using. It was a pleasing thought. Ten years in solitude and constant paranoia and fear were being stripped away, as the hot water had stripped the layers of grease from the cowboy earlier. 

Hanzo bore the chill a moment longer as Jesse’s mechanical hand warmed up, cupping him that way, firm yet surprisingly gentle. Presently, McCree allowed it to wander around the man’s angular hip, grasping one ass cheek with some fondness, and more than a little roughness. He continued kissing the archer for all he was worth and then some, hoping to properly communicate his affection. 

“Jesse…” Hanzo whined, just as his mouth was completely occupied by the doting cowboy. There was no mistaking this, no possible way to misconstrue it. They had both fully given up the pretense of being “close friends,” chasing whatever it was they  _ did _ have down the rabbit hole. 

“I adore you, darlin’,” Jesse mumbled. “Lordy, I can’t believe it took me this long to see it…” His mutterings came between kisses and quiet sighing, “I-I am… absolutely, completely awestruck by you.” 

Where words had failed Hanzo, or where he didn’t trust himself to deliver them properly, the cowboy had no such issue, allowing whatever was in his mind to flow forth. As usual. Hanzo grappled with any kind of response, resting on repeating the man’s name, pawing at the man’s hair and back, whatever he could reach. 

The archer’s flesh was soft and smooth, but the muscles underneath it were rock solid. The cowboy grasped and groped and licked and kissed even bit here and there, finding himself completely atop Hanzo. The thought of the deadly assassin beneath him gasping and heaving made Jesse achy. He dipped his head down and, upon finding a nipple, licked it, closing his lips around the pert little bud momentarily, watching from under thick lashes to gauge his friend’s reaction.

The response was almost instant. Hanzo tilted his head back and moaned, attempting to expose himself more than he already was, already bare-chested. The arching allowed the cowboy a bigger canvas on which to paint, however. McCree was taking his sweet time, pulling the assassin apart piece by piece.  _ This man will be the death of me _ , he thought helplessly. 

It was just what the cowboy wanted. The way the man underneath him writhed and squirmed indicated he was slowly cresting toward some small form of madness. Drawing this out was the best decision Jesse McCree had made in a while. He switched sides, trailing kisses between and groping his friend at the same time. He made sure to nibble just hard enough to get a sound. The cowboy appreciated the way Hanzo said his name. 

Those precious noises came with little urging, falling carelessly from the Shimada’s lips, soft gasps, and moaned words, English and otherwise. Jesse’s name was repeated like a mantra. The disciplined warrior within Hanzo was of little use at this point as the cowboy went to town on the man’s body, searing his brand on Hanzo’s heart with kisses and affection. Hanzo was at McCree’s mercy.

The cowboy, for his part, seemed fascinated with the assassin’s chest, though he did begin, eventually, to kiss down the man’s tattooed arm. A dash of mushy phrases and some humor between contact of lips and flesh made the experience totally unique to Jesse McCree. 

While Jesse was doting on his inked flesh, Hanzo was granted something of a reprieve, though the tingling waves never quite stopped. He was amused at the muttered, nonsensical phrases and the behavior only served to tug the assassin further down into his soft, affectionate feelings. It was like trying to struggle out of quicksand; eventually, it just took you. 

Hanzo made note to ask McCree what some of those phrases meant. As fluent as he might have been in English, “prettier’n a white buffalo on the third o’ August” didn’t make much sense to him. The archer thanked every ancestor his heat-addled mind could remember that he’d happened across this magnificent, long-legged “sweet-pea” (was that the right phrase?). Working his way back up, that busy mouth found Hanzo’s sharp jawline. When Jesse found his throat, coherent thought was brought to an abrupt halt once more. 

Hanzo tasted good, which was unexpected, but pleasing. It had been quite some time since Jesse had his mouth on another man, which was a damn shame, but he was glad it had turned out to be  _ this _ one. Of course, part of the taste was very likely the man’s cleanliness. They’d just showered, after all. There was a unique flavor present as well that had nothing to do with soap or hygiene however, and Jesse suddenly had to know how Hanzo tasted  _ all _ over. 

Those deft hands of his went about their swift business, tugging the  _ obi _ free and releasing Hanzo from his  _ yukata _ entirely. Was it simply in the American’s nature to work toward something, but take the longest way around to reach it? It was certainly starting to feel that way, but finally McCree was moving in the desired direction. Hanzo was loathe to give up control so easily, but in the cowboy’s hands, he was like putty. Jesse tugged at the edge of his friend’s meager undergarments gently. His eyes met the archer’s in a silent question. Hanzo nodded vigorously at Jesse, unable to even put up a front of composure. 

“Please,” came the choked plea from swollen lips. 

McCree was almost startled by the speed with which Hanzo responded to his request. He’d even asked so nicely, saying please and all. How could the cowboy resist? He tugged once more, experimentally and then yanked gently the rest of the way, freeing the poor, aching archer from the cloth confines of the last barrier between his most intimate flesh and Jesse’s wild mouth. 

Now there was truly no going back. Hanzo was completely exposed for the other man's enjoyment. Of course, he would have been lying to even  _ suggest _ that he, too, was not enjoying himself. There was something to be said for giving up control on occasion. The last time he  _ had _ , however… his lower limbs tingled with phantom memories of existence. Hanzo shook off the unpleasantness and focused on the cowboy between his thighs. 

McCree’s flesh hand wrapped around Hanzo, grasping him firmly with calloused fingers and using a soft, fluid motion to tug back the remainder of the foreskin that covered his cock head. The sinfully grinning cowboy then dropped his head almost too quickly, encircling the man’s reddining cock head with his lips, suckling gently at it, preying on its sensitivity. The archer could  _ feel _ that torturous little ball flicking at the underside as McCree teased at him.

If Hanzo hadn’t been completely hard when Jesse grabbed him, he had certainly reached that point now. He felt his heartbeat throb through his cock in the cowboy’s hand. Once Jesse’s mouth encircled him, the Shimada gasped, chewing his lower lip and grasping uselessly at the floor. McCree wanted to tell the man to relax, but his mouth was a mite busy, full of salty cock and pleased as punch. He slowly, slowly, slid his lips down the length, confident he could take the whole of it. Clearly, this was  _ not _ his first rodeo. 

As Jesse went down, Hanzo’s hips went up before he could attempt to take back any control of his body. He was gleeful to receive the cowboy’s affections and did his best to inform him of this with the soft and desperate noises that fell from his lips. McCree, meanwhile, did nothing to stop Hanzo fucking his mouth. It wasn’t rough, just a little buck of the hips that made the man’s cock stab at the back of the cowboy’s throat. He steeled himself for the choke that never really came.  _ Like ridin’ a bike _ , he thought, pleased with his performance.

Both Hanzo’s legs were over McCree’s shoulders and he had a proper mouthful of cock, but what to do with those horribly crafty hands? The fleshier of the two moved to grasp the archer’s formerly neglected sack, kneading gently, just enough to gauge the reaction, see if he liked it. Small, involuntary moans and gasps told Jesse exactly what he needed to hear. McCree was destroying Hanzo, shattering him to the most beautiful pieces imaginable. The man tossed an arm over his eyes, as if hiding his shame from coming undone so easily. 

What a sight he must have been making: the proud scion of the Shimada clan, wielder of all their most secret arts, including the sacred dragons, and heir to an empire, on his back with an American cowboy on top of him, sucking his cock, fondling his balls and dismantling him. Of course, with each bit he took, Jesse was sure to repair the loss with gusto, bobbing his head and balancing furious pleasure with relief. 

It was a long climb, where he wanted to go and he would have been remiss to allow Hanzo to reach the summit too quickly. This was special. What was happening between them would only happen once. A first time meant a lot and Jesse was going to make damn sure it was good. Surreptitiously, the cowboy had begun to slick up two of his fingers, the metallic ones, as he went up and down, sliding his lips on Hanzo’s cock shaft, curling his tongue to create a valley on which to rest the underside as he did so. The fingers he now pressed at the man’s hole, once more looking up from his complex oral task to beg permission non-verbally. 

Hanzo’s muscles tensed at the sudden touch. There was still a lingering chill on the metal and a lingering  _ voice _ in Hanzo’s mind, protesting such a posture. Once the surprise subsided and the proud warrior was silenced, the archer’s baser instincts took over. The Shimada used what little leverage he had to push toward the fingers.   
“Please,” there was that murmured word again, for the second time this evening, music to McCree’s ears. Hanzo replaced the arm over his eyes once he’d given his response, sucking his lower lip into his mouth and biting down. He was polite even this far gone. Something like that couldn’t be helped. Anyway, he thought the cowboy probably liked that. Jesse managed a grin which went unseen by his companion, with his mouth still on Hanzo’s cock and pressed the two slick digits forward. 

His reasoning behind using his metallic hand was good: metal was smoother than flesh on flesh and he was not exactly prepared with the proper lubricant. He’d hardly anticipated this when Hanzo had insisted he shower. 

He hollowed fuzz-covered cheeks and drew up on the man, leaving only his lips around the sensitive head as he pressed his robotic digits past the tight ring of muscle between Hanzo’s ass cheeks. 

The shifting sensations were perfect, bordering on too much and yet Hanzo couldn’t get enough. He tried to get more on either end, pressing back or pushing up, but to no avail. The cowboy was taking this at his own pace.

“Jesse,  _ onegai _ … _ t _ _ omaranai de _ _. _ ”  _ Do not stop _ . Hanzo whined. He would not forget this. McCree would pay for making the dragon wait. Though he felt less a dragon and more a blushing virgin--which was wholly inaccurate--at this exact moment. 

McCree could tell by the plaintive tone and lack of honorifics entirely that Hanzo was desperate. He was also not being painfully polite, which left no submission to the imagination. This was Hanzo Shimada, heir to the powerful clan, coming apart at the seams as the cowboy began to bob his head again, obligingly, humming rhythmically with each movement. His fingers ceased their motion for a moment before continuing on their course, pushing deeper. His flesh hand was simply cradling Hanzo’s sack, barely applying any sort of pressure. 

As the digits pressed into him deeper, Hanzo gasped softly, his throat shooting out a “yes,” before the word could even fully form in his mind. He didn’t even know if it had been English, but Jesse’s command of Japanese was hopefully sufficient to gather what the archer wanted. The stretch hurt, definitely, but Hanzo knew it would be worth the pinching agony later on. Jesse would make it worth his while. He was that kind of man.

Out of all the people on Earth in whom Hanzo Shimada would place his entire trust, who would have thought it would be an American cowboy? Given his current position, trust was all there  _ was _ , but in the grand scheme of things, their presence in each other’s lives made no sense. Hanzo was grateful, would always  _ be _ grateful, for his smarmy companion and the hapless road that led to him. He’d have said so, but Jesse’s fantastic timing was driving the ability to speak clearly out of his mind. 

McCree was an expert at maintaining that maddening rhythm. He was slowly succeeding in his ultimate goal, but more than that, he was pleasing the honest-to-god man of his dreams. He was also counting mentally, to keep pace with himself.  _ This _ was something to which the cowboy would never admit, not aloud, anyway. Once he was up to the second knuckle, he drew back out slowly, as his mouth closed completely over Hanzo once more. 

A pathetic whine peeled from Hanzo’s lips as McCree removed his fingers. Hanzo pushed back on nothing, feeling empty. He knew more would come. He’d seen just what  _ more _ was in the shower. It was more. A  _ lot _ more. His cheeks flushed at the lewd thought. 

Those whimpers and moans and pleas for mercy were just what Jesse needed to hear, they were the perfect reaction. McCree wasn’t about to give that up just yet. He pulled his mouth up and suckled almost greedily at Hanzo’s cock head once more, this time inserting a third finger and pushing deep. Lack of lube immediately at hand was the only thing keeping the cowboy from satisfying his own urge to fill Hanzo. 

The archer did his best to relax into the three fingers that were now pressing deep inside him. He breathed deep, knowing this would get better if he did. Jesse’s continued presence on his cock certainly helped, the cowboy’s sweet mouth faithfully distracting him. He needed this, even the pain. All of this was a necessary step to continue, and by god did he want to continue. His hands loosely wound themselves into McCree’s hair, not pulling or moving, just feeling this man, his friend who was on him and in him and all around him. 

“Jesse,” Hanzo moaned again, with no intention of adding a sentence to the other end of the man’s name, only desiring to taste the syllables that made up a symbol for the most maddening, gorgeous, lewd man in the world. 

_ Keep sayin’ my name like that, darlin’, _ thought the cowboy, deepthroating Hanzo again,  _ an’ this’s gunna get messier by half _ . Oh did he want to plunge himself inside the man beneath him. As far as he could tell, however, they didn’t have the proper tools handy, aside from the obvious and it just wasn’t enough. He began thrusting his fingers hard and timing the movement with his mouth, hollowing his cheeks as he pulled up, following that by going all the way back down. 

Small gasps and lewd moans fell from the Shimada’s mouth as McCree’s fingers pushed hard and deep. Working together with his mouth, the cowboy made Hanzo’s body sing and ache with each movement and each pause. There were oceans of anticipation, followed by deserts of loss and need. Hanzo had dissolved into gasped hisses of Japanese, where words  _ could _ form and loud groans where they couldn’t. His grip on the cowboy’s hair tightened unbidden; he did not mean to harm Jesse, but his control was slipping in the heat of the man’s diligence. 

The tug on his hair told McCree that he was doing  _ something _ right, perhaps everything. Making Hanzo’s body sing was a great accomplishment, as well as a labor of love. It was not easy work keeping time and making sure to balance his efforts, but to truly drive the composed man to madness, he had to stay on task. The dragon thrashed in his grasp and he wrestled it with gentle strength and endurance. Crooking his fingers, McCree searched for the prostate, a sweet spot that was sure to make his friend squeal.

The brush of McCree’s metallic fingers within him brought a surprised yelp from Hanzo’s lips and he tensed up around the digits. This pleasure was above and beyond the stretching, the aching, the teasing and sucking he was already experiencing, adding another, horribly distracting layer to the cacophony. The warrior within him was a hot mess of whimpered moans and gasped utterances of damnation and eternal love. The Shimada was gone, in his place, a dragon had awoken, one who was perfectly content to let the cowboy have his way, if it left him sated. 

Jesse could feel Hanzo’s sack tense up in his gentle grasp. The yelp from his friend told McCree that he was close, as well. All the signs of the man’s body begged for pressure and relief, pressure and release. The cowboy thought about it a moment and then reached back to grasp himself in his flesh hand. It was a clumsy grip, but one tug brought a small jet of precum, which he’d been leaking as soon as Hanzo started moaning. He knew it wouldn’t take much. Hanzo was fairly slick with saliva and, with McCree’s own cum, he could possibly push in once, maybe twice without hurting the man. All that was left was permission, and to ask anything, he would need his lips, which he presently slid off Hanzo’s cock, drawing his fingers back a little as well. 

Half-lidded, coal-dark eyes watched McCree with blown pupils as he drew back, leaving the archer feeling empty and neglected. The dragon was displeased and he growled to display this. But the cowboy’s lips were so red and his face completely flushed, Hanzo couldn’t stay upset for long. His gaze found McCree’s hand, fisting himself haphazardly, his hairy chest heaving, the line of fuzz pointing to his large endowment. Oh, how Hanzo wanted that…

“Jesse…” He groaned, gesturing weakly toward the table where the equipment lay for cleaning and maintaining his prosthetics, “...the oil is organic...safe for mechanical parts  _ and _ flesh…” 

He hoped the cowboy--who had the habit of being dense at the worst moments--would get the point. Jesse took that as permission and proper direction, releasing himself momentarily to half-crawl to grasp the elegant little bottle. Through the haze of lust and alcohol, McCree could make out the label, which deemed the stuff as “organic” and “food safe”...  _ Later, for that last one, _ he thought to himself, relishing the idea of eating Hanzo out and making him beg. He returned with a lazy grin on his face, applying some of it to his palm and grasping himself again. 

Hanzo’s hungry gaze and supine form gave Jesse all the permission he needed. He wanted desperately to say something to the archer, but his sore jaw would not permit it, so instead, he tilted his body forward, leaning over Hanzo’s body to meet his lips, their erections rubbing together. The dragon gasped, his cowboy captured it and devoured the sound. 

Sitting back, McCree found himself well between Hanzo’s thighs, the mechanical works of art splayed wide on either side of thick hips. Jesse McCree was not a slender fellow, by any means. His days of scrapping for survival in youth were over and the 37-year-old man had gained a bit of softness on the hips and belly. Underneath it was solid, taut as a drum, however. Whatever he looked like to himself in the mirror, Hanzo saw an Adonis, worthy of this task.

To that end, he protested waiting any longer, arching his back and tossing his head like a defiant stallion, begging to be broken. Jesse grasped the back of the man’s thigh, under one knee with a single hand, using the other to properly position himself. There had not been much oil in the container, so he wouldn’t be running the poor man raw. It wouldn’t take him long to finish, he wagered, so McCree began the laborious task of pressing his cockhead past the ring of muscle at the archer’s taut entrance. 

Hanzo could not help the sounds that escaped him as McCree finally answered his silent plea to be filled. He had stilled as the man moved about and only demanded what was rightfully his when he felt the cowboy was taking too long. Seeing Jesse’s weathered, freckled face poised so carefully, deep in concentration, forcing himself to be sure he did not injure his companion made Hanzo’s heart ache so sweetly, matching the tight pinching stretch the man’s cock was causing. 

McCree had him. Hanzo was in good hands, the best. As the cowboy pushed in, Hanzo’s eyes snapped shut again, this new wave of passion hitting him with every blessed inch of Jesse’s cock. The gunslinger knew he had to be gentle, was focused upon it, hardly prepared for the tightness and heat into which he was slowly sinking. The two of them had gone into this evening as mere friends, Hanzo complaining of the way the outlaw consistently smelled and vowing to clean him within an inch of his life. Jesse was not a man to back down from a challenge, so he’d accepted. 

“How’d we get here, darlin’?” He mumbled this more to himself than to Hanzo, who was too far gone to respond. The archer breathed, in and out.  _ Take it easy _ , he told himself, but his mental dialogue was in Jesse’s reassuring drawl, rather than his own voice. Somehow, that made things better, easier. 

The stretching was less easily accomplished. The fingers had been an excellent placeholder, but were hardly comparable to the real thing and he fought himself to stay loose as he could. It hurt and he could not help wincing as McCree pushed inward. Hanzo was sure the oil for his prosthetics was saving him from being torn up, but if he was honest with himself, he’d have gone for it either way. This whole thing was utterly idiotic, of course. No condoms, no proper lubricant, not even in a  _ bed _ ! The affair was sordid, messy, spontaneous, fiery, a dragon and a gunslinger, entwined and fighting alongside each other to reach a summit neither could see, but both sought with a vigor befitting much younger men. Hanzo wrapped his arms around the man inside him, fingers becoming claws, determined to mark Jesse as his own. 

McCree felt the grasp sink into his back. His flesh stung and sang the praises of the man bestowing such a gift upon him. Watching Hanzo’s face was a blessing, the way it contorted in pain and pleasure, showing silent pleas that formed and dissipated like a clouds over the desert in mid summer, promising rain and then failing to deliver. 

This was a terrible idea, but like most terrible ideas, it felt so good, he was not about to stop. He knew the fact of its idiocy from the bottom of his heart; their lack of preparedness was a damn disgrace.Because of that, McCree compensated by pushed slowly, so slowly, moving deep as he could, knowing he couldn’t nail the man’s prostate with any kind of force but hoping he’d be able to sheath himself and roll his hips to get some kind of rubbing action going. 

The pain continued as Hanzo hung onto McCree for dear life as the cowboy slid himself in up to the hilt. The American felt massive inside of him. The elder Shimada was no stranger to pain, of course, but this particular brand had been one he’d not felt in years. He blinked away small tears, ridding himself of the evidence and hopefully ridding Jesse of any kind of guilt. It was his trust in the cowboy and his affection toward him that kept the assassin where he was, waiting for his body to adjust more around the intrusion. 

McCree held very still, almost as deep as he could get. Pulling out would hurt Hanzo way too much, so he wasn’t about to do that and thrusting just wasn’t an option at the moment. He swallowed thickly and, bracing himself with one elbow next to Hanzo, he leaned up to press a gentle kiss at the corner of the man’s mouth, which was slack in a silent gasp. 

“Yer tight, darlin’... I’m sorry,” McCree fumbled. His cock was so thoroughly squeezed, so hotly handled and the  _ saké  _ had made them both so warm, it took every ounce of his strength and willpower not to simply start rutting into the man like some wild beast. Hanzo nodded in response and offered a reminder to placate the cowboy. 

“I asked,” he mumbled. This particular liaison--the timing, anyway--had perhaps been a mistake, but the whole endeavor was not necessarily a loss. The pain had softened him a bit, so Hanzo reached down to take his cock in hand, working himself as a sweet distraction. To occupy  _ McCree _ , however, he settled on a different tactic. “Do you think about me when you are alone, Jesse?” 

McCree swallowed hard, the flush across freckled, sun-kissed cheeks deepening to a bloody crimson. Slowly, he nodded. Braced as he was, over the top of his friend, he could feel what the man was doing between them and recalled every dream he’d ever had about Hanzo, every time he’d awoken with his heart thudding in his chest and his cock stiff. He rolled his hips slowly, gently, pushing the rest of the way in and making an effort to please the archer, trying his best to avoid hurting him. 

The initial roll was the hardest, but Hanzo did not falter beyond a strong wince. He could deal with the pain as it came. He had a cowboy to melt. Priorities had to be kept in order, after all. 

“I dreamed about you,” he said, his voice low, a soothing rumble like distant thunder. Where his vocal chords had earlier failed him, they now paid recompense for their betrayal. “Except that  _ I  _ was privileged to find myself between…” he paused to grunt, “... _ your _ thighs, against the wall in the training room--the upper one, with a lovely view… you liked the windows.”

McCree’s heart skipped a beat. He  _ did _ love those windows, something about the way the ocean shone, pure as aquamarine on the other side of them, made him feel like he was outside, even when they were all sealed and shut. It was calming. The idea of being fucked against one or nearby was incredibly pleasant. It made his cock twitch hard inside Hanzo, his balls tightening. The cowboy would  _ not _ last much longer this way. 

“I didn’t...ah--I had no idea… but I kinda hoped you’d notice me,” he responded between gentle motions of his hips. The moment Hanzo had shown up at Watchpoint: Gibraltar, at the behest of his estranged sibling and with a desire to reconcile with him, Jesse had fallen and hard. Everything about the man was all poise, coiled like a spring and vicious, a true dragon, inside and out, all taut muscles, compact and carved as if from stone. He was statuesque, the most beautiful thing Jesse had seen in a long, long time. 

His musings broke in half as Jesse’s hips rolled again. The man’s cock was sizeable.

“You were so loud,” Hanzo continued, when he felt the cowboy tense up. Dirty talking was easily accomplished and if it drove Jesse mad this way, Hanzo couldn’t wait to try it again. It was thrilling to have such control over the man, even when he was inside the  _ archer _ . “I gave you my own… heh… dragon, to keep you quiet, but it was not enough for you.”

Hanzo was so GOOD at this. Jesse bit his lip, appreciating the metaphor. He wanted to beg the guy to go on, but was too focused on not hurting him. Hanzo didn’t seem like he was going to just up and stop anyway, so letting things progress at the archer’s pace seemed easier. Jesse shifted a little and pulled out a tiny bit, enough to once more roll his hips and push back in, his slick precum and what little organic oil he’d gleaned from Hanzo’s bottle offering enough lubricant to keep the situation safe. Jesse made a hasty mental note to stock up. Given the way Hanzo was fairly purring--in addition to his dirty dream story--they would be doing this again, hopefully sober. 

Hanzo did his best not to tense around the other man’s movements, knowing the more relaxed he was, the better it would be. It helped that McCree managed to brush that sweet spot inside him as he pushed back in, pulling a slight moan from the archer. It still hurt, but the pain was slightly curbed by the sweeter sensations of being filled. 

“You made such a mess,” Hanzo’s bass flowed down Jesse’s spine like warm water, resting deep in the pit of his stomach. “Even on your silly poncho.”

“It’s a--” Jesse gasped before he could finish correcting his friend, who was obviously egging him on. McCree loved his  _ serape _ and had more than once gotten into a fight regarding it and/or its proper designation. Hanzo fought the urge to chuckle. Even now, his dear, idiot cowboy was defending his goofy outfit. The silly man. The Shimada settled on shaking his head instead. 

“You always look good in your silly cowboy suit,” he reassured Jesse. “Maybe next time, I wear the hat, eh?”

Hanzo with his hat on. The idea was comical and incredibly arousing all at once. Jesse wondered if it wasn’t also a double entendre, referring to their current situation and a possible reversal--also a “next time,” which was entirely promising and made the cowboy’s heart leap for joy. 

“Maybe you’d better,” he strained, rocking his hips once more. 

“Just the hat,” Hanzo murmured. He relaxed into the other man’s push this time, feeling the rhythm as the cowboy proceeded. What an image he had painted in his own head. He pictured himself, waiting in McCree’s room, wearing that silly had and nothing else. It was lost as the cowboy once more brushed his prostate. 

“ _ Jesse _ ,” he moaned, his hands abandoning any other task to tangle themselves in soft chestnut locks. “ _ Jesse, _ I--”

Whatever words he had prepared died in his throat. He was so close. Jesse read the cues properly, which told him to keep going. He focused on doing so gently, however. At this point, if he came, it was secondary to making damn sure Hanzo was okay. The sex had sobered him up a bit, likely sweating out the alcohol or some damn foolish thing. McCree tasted salt on his upper lip, fuzzy as it was, and longed to taste Hanzo again. He leaned forward a little and once more claimed the archer’s lips, swallowing up any errant moans or grunts from the man. He could feel himself tipping toward the edge, which would assist a little with the lubrication, but it brought another question to his mind: did Hanzo want the cowboy coming inside him?

Hanzo had no such thought, back to clinging to the other man, holding on helplessly as the heat built inside him. There was pain, sure, but there was also so much love that Hanzo couldn’t possibly begin to complain. Jesse was taking such good care of him. The ember the archer had long thought extinguished was back, smoldering and growing into a proper blaze thanks to this man. He had given himself completely over to the cowboy, enjoying a modicum of control, but in the end relinquishing it to allow Jesse to make him feel oh, so good. 

“Jesse,” he said, voice soft, lips moving against McCree’s ear. “I need you.”

“I love...I love you,” McCree muttered against the side of Hanzo’s neck, where cradled his head to continue rolling his hips into the other man. He grasped Hanzo hard and moaned as the tightness pulled him in, tugging him inexorably toward climax. That was the second time he’d declared his feelings for the scion of the Shimada clan. What of the dragon himself? How did  _ Hanzo _ feel? 

“ _ Anata wa okurimonodesu...aishiteiru… _ ” Said the dragon,  _ you are a gift… I love you. _ . Jesse got the gist as Hanzo winced a little less with each roll of the cowboy’s powerful hips and groaned a little more. He was so close to the edge it was maddening. With every deep push, Hanzo could feel that sweet brush against his prostate. He was about to fall, could feel it throughout his entire body, humming with energy and need. Hands tightened helplessly in the man’s hair.    
“ _ Jesse! _ ” he called, warning as best he could with the man’s name, which tasted better every time it rolled from addled lips. McCree was about to come forcefully when the final warning came from his friend--no, his lover. Hanzo found the edge and the cowboy pushed him over. His whole body rose and tensed, mouth open, but no sound came. The man’s insides tightened down something fierce upon the cowboy’s thick cock, milking it for all he had and more. Hanzo climaxed in the small space between them, on both of their bellies and chests, bare and fuzzy, tattooed and blank. He had no mind to process this. All he could do was hold on desperately to his cowboy as ache and bliss filled his body in equal measure. 

The cowboy spent his own hot seed within the heir of the Shimada legacy. It was hopelessly sacrilegious. It was delightful. After that, he could not control his thrusting, the tight heat made slicker still with cum. He snapped his hips to finish himself, groaning into Hanzo’s neck. The salty, sweaty taste of Hanzo’s throat and shoulder was the only sensation Jesse could register at the moment. The stars which had blinded him to the beauty beneath him were only just receding and he would later lament he had not been able to watch Hanzo’s face as he came. Jesse clutched himself as close as their shaking, slick bodies would allow, sucking and kissing at wherever he could reach, lazily, listlessly, spent, satisfied, sticky and exhausted. 

It was a long moment before Hanzo felt he could breathe or think once more. Even then, he felt such a tingle in his extremities from the slowly receding explosion, he didn’t dare move. Everything was pinpricks, his skin trembling with heightened sensitivity. Even a shift would rub their flesh together and he surmised he would probably black out. He only managed to tilt his head slightly, to better receive the cowboy’s never-ending affections. 

There was still a haze leftover from the  _ saké _ , now coupled with the misty exhaustion from their rutting. Combined, it was a guaranteed knock-out potion. If the cowboy had more love to give, he would accept it, but Hanzo had no energy to properly reciprocate.    
Fortunately, Jesse was plumb tuckered out. He couldn’t even make the effort to remove himself immediately, so he gently tilted their bodies, still entangled and impaled. It was a glorious feeling, but had to be cut short before they both fell dead asleep. 

“I oughtta…” he murmured, reaching between them as best he could to pull out, leaving a trail of cum leaking from Hanzo’s pert ass. Hanzo winced when McCree dislodged himself, knowing he would likely have a bit of blood and plenty of ache there to deal with when he woke up. 

One day, when he was less hammered, the cowboy would lick his lover clean, which he said to Hanzo immediately, eager for the reaction. “Sometime… I’m gunna clean you up, darlin’...got a wicked tongue on me, so I been told.”

As the situation stood before him, he wasn't sure if he would make it to the bunk before he passed out, but he was not so tired as to not smile lightly and offer a delighted hum at the cowboy’s future offer.

“You had best be thorough, Cowboy,” he warned. In response, Jesse leaned in for another kiss, this one thoughtful and slow, gradual and absolutely deliberate, knowing exactly what it wanted and where it was going. He laid his mechanical hand on  Hanzo’s bare hip, their clothing in shambles around them. “And do not neglect to bring your bauble along.”

Hanzo gestured languidly at his own mouth, indicating the wicked piercing that had helped Jesse McCree succeeding in driving him completely over the edge, taking apart the powerful dragon within and revealing the vulnerable man underneath those steely scales. 

“That was...good, darlin’. Real good.” 

The affection and the added compliment, along with his favorite pet name, brought a smile to Hanzo’s sharp-featured face. He and Jesse were both flushed, panting, lavishing each other with kisses and gentleness, things they had missed when they were younger, both desperate to be as good to the other man as those in the past had not been. They were making up for years of icy neglect, raging abuse, stark loneliness. 

“ _ Hai _ , yes it was. Thank you, Jesse.”

McCree had never been thanked for doing something like that. The response brought a wide grin to his face that bordered on childlike. He pressed his forehead against Hanzo’s a moment, before pulling away. 

“I ain’t much fer tellin’ a man his business, but maybe you oughtta…” he jerked his head gently toward Hanzo’s sleeping area proper, “we ain’t exactly young men...much as the floor appeals t’me right about now an’ I ain’t leavin’ you here this way.”

The dragon nodded, but was not entirely sure he could stand on his own. Thankfully he was  _ not _ on his own and held tightly to the cowboy has both attempted to get to their feet. He was very aware of the ache in his ass as it pained him slightly with every movement (not to mention leaking Jesse’s cum a bit once he stood). But it was all to be tossed in the “tomorrow” bin of problems. The  _ yukata _ , too, were left to the floor, to be collected in the morning. Hanzo noted with some delight, that cum had spilled on his late father’s, staining it with the salt of their lovemaking. 

“You are staying,” it was not a question, but a demand. It was in the dragon’s nature to seek control in all things. Anyway, he wanted to make damn sure the cowboy knew this was not a “one and done” situation. Hanzo demanded respect from his lovers and part of that was, of course, staying the whole night. 

“Can I?” The freckled cowboy seemed surprised his companion would ask this of him--or rather, tell him. It was odd, given their friendship and blossoming whatever-this-was growing between them, not to mention the good time Hanzo had just been shown, yet the surprise remained all the same. Jesse blustered a little bit as he let his friend down onto the bed, gently as he could manage. 

“Please,” Hanzo said as McCree settled next to him. Both were consumed with lusty thoughts about the other, sharing a kiss and then tucking themselves in. Oh, how McCree wanted to lick the man clean. Such filthy thoughts would keep him awake if he let them. 

Hanzo curled into McCree, allowing himself to be properly enveloped by those big, powerful arms. He held tight to  _ his _ cowboy, feeling safe for the first time in years. 

For some reason, Jesse’s thoughts were wandering far into the future, where they had no right to be. His dreams followed the same pattern as he drifted off into a deep sleep, holding the man in his arms like he’d never held anyone else. He thought through all the places they could have sex, which was natural, but then…


	5. splinters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What a wild night they've just had! But can the lifetime of training and repression Hanzo suffered under his father's thumb be thrown away so easily?

McCree awoke hours later with a start and the name  _ Jesse Shimada _ on his mind, blaring like a loud alarm. Hanzo, who’d fallen asleep like a stone dropped in still water, woke to Jesse’s stirring next to him. He didn’t move, nor did he speak, the events of the night before hitting him all at once, a freight train of realization, of emotion, of pain, of sweet, sweet release and the realization that it was the first time in almost two decades he had allowed himself that level of vulnerability. It left only one question in its wake: What would happen now?

The cowboy muttered a weak apology and ventured to gently kiss the man’s temple. He was a little bleary, a lot hungover and had just a pinch of regret hovering around the back corners of his mind. It was not regret for the act, or that it had occurred, but rather that he had not been prepared and that he might have harmed his friend. 

For a moment, he was back in Budapest, a dark-ops mission to root out some troublesome insurgents, armed and backed by Talon. Hanzo’s flesh was too pale, hardly scarred, had angles but they were different. Jesse was  _ not _ in Budapest. He was in Gibraltar, lying abed next to Hanzo Shimada. He was Overwatch, legit, one of the good guys.  _ Well, good ‘nuff, _ the cowboy reckoned.  

Hanzo shifted slightly at the kiss, making a low sound of pleasure. This was real. Everything that had passed between them last night was real. There was a haze around his memories, of course, but that didn’t make them a dream. The reality of it all, which had filled his limbs with warmth was now settling in his gut as a chilly, heavy feeling--was it guilt? Regret? If so, it was the voice of Sojiro Shimada, ever-present in the back of Hanzo’s mind, scolding him for his indiscretion. 

Jesse studied the man a moment, drinking in his angular, powerful features. His almond-shaped eyes were sharp, if a bit red around the outsides from last night’s drinking. He was a force of nature just to  _ look  _ at, but to experience him the way Jesse had… that was a privilege. McCree was half expecting Hanzo to ask him to leave. Maybe he should just go anyway…? Leave the man alone… Where were his clothes? Right, Hanzo had brought them to the wash, which meant by now, everyone knew where he was and possibly what and who he was doing.  _ Calm down, partner, _ his even-keeled inner monologue warned,  _ no one suspects a thing _ .

And what did it matter if they  _ did _ ? Jesse knew he could handle it. He had never made a secret of his particular leanings. Hanzo’s honor was at stake, however, and that alone kept McCree from strutting out into the hall, covering himself with his hat and whooping for joy like a kid at Christmas. Instead, he reached over, grasping Hanzo’s angular, fuzzy chin and tilted it upward, to taste him again.

“This… this is real, right?” He asked, mouth inches away from his friend’s. A small, weary smile ghosted across the dragon’s face. 

“It is very real, Jesse. You have my word.”

And with his declaration, everything from the night before came hurtling toward the two of them, trapped like an old-timey belle tied to train tracks. The conclusion was inevitable and no kindly Texas Ranger, Mountie, or other masked vigilante was going to rescue them from the clutches of what they’d done. Hanzo’s next question was of course with regards to the future. His hand found McCree’s just to hold it, grasping warm metal which had been nestled between their bodies. The archer wanted this, not just to spite his father, but for  _ himself _ . He pressed further into McCree, praying that this would drive away the chill of foreboding that hung just around the edges of his consciousness, hissing threats and warnings, prophecies and portents. All with the voice of his father. 

“ _ Can _ this be real, darlin’?” It was Jesse’s way of asking Hanzo and any god who was listening to bless their union, in a way, and to allow it to continue. He wanted this, maybe even needed it, so badly he could taste it. If Hanzo let him, he  _ would _ taste it. 

Hanzo was quiet for a moment, eyes downcast. In the warmth of the bed, against the man, the answer had to be yes. How could it be anything else? And yet Hanzo could not drive out the chilly grip of his father, as if the man’s clammy hands were clawing their way from the afterlife to grasp his heart and squeeze it until it deflated and he retreated into the shell of a man that he was before he met Jesse McCree. 

“I… don’t know,” Hanzo muttered, ashamed of himself. His emotions were a roiling sea of conflict and this indecision only added to the mix. He was hot and cold all at once, terrified of the future, horrified at his past, stuck right in between and suspended. 

Jesse’s heart dropped, going cold in his gut. Where it had once soared and beat a little too hard, now it snapped a staccato rhythm of marching agony. 

“Yer...ah… yer right,” he sighed, hapless and a little dejected. Maybe he should have left before Hanzo awoke. It would perhaps have been better for both of them and certainly  _ easier _ for the archer. “Timing’s all wrong, I reckon.”   
Everything about this was right, however. The way Hanzo fit, the way Jesse’s name fell from his lips, it was beyond right. But it had to be Hanzo’s choice, at this point. The poor man had spent years fleeing his tyrannical family, cleansing himself from his past. Likely, he was still struggling with that and Jesse was hardly in a place to tell him  _ how _ . For heaven’s sake, he still woke from nightmares about operations he’d performed whilst under the Blackwatch banner. He of all people should have understood that healing always took time. But why now?

Hanzo’s sharp gaze softened immediately when his eyes chanced to meet those of the poor cowboy. His heart was breaking in a thousand pieces--if it was not already a cracked mess. He could see from Jesse’s face that his heart, too, was shattering. The broken bits jangled around inside, slicing everything they touched, sharp like glass. 

“Jesse,” he said, resting his head against the man’s broad, fuzzy chest. “I was to be the leader of the Shimada clan, I… I was to have heirs, to continue the legacy, pass down the dragons,” the cowboy was so beautiful, broken this way, like one of those statues of the Virgin Mary, melancholic, but accepting. “I wasn’t… to have something like this,” he shook his head.

“Oh,” came the quiet response. Stupid cowboy, of course Hanzo had to father heirs. Whether he still did or not was not the issue, but rather the lifelong training he had received from his family to believe so. What was McCree’s thought process in  _ this _ one, anyway?  _ Did I seriously think the man would be able to throw something like that away for some good sex?  _ He battered himself. “I ah… yeah, darlin’ I just--yeah, I get it. It was...yer responsibility for so long, hard to let a thing like that go. Never had me none--responsibility, that is, so… I guess I just don’t understand, but that don’t mean I get to make the call.”

“ _ Koibito _ ,” Hanzo said quietly, bestowing upon Jesse a small pet name of his own, this one dangerously intimate, given his current state of fear and indecision. “I left the clan years ago. I abdicated my responsibility.” His countenance darkened as he continued, caught up in a memory. “After Genji...I had no reason to stay.” How was he to make Jesse understand the ruthlessness of the Shimada clan, how firm their teachings and rules had been? “I no longer serve them, but I cannot deny how I have been formed by those who bear my name.”

“Yeah, well… y’know yer still a legacy,” said the cowboy, “clan or no clan. And them dragons gotta go someplace.”

Hanzo was silent for a few moments, taking in all the stimuli around them, breathing in and out and listening to his own heartbeat. He was still so entwined with the cowboy, it surprised him how easy this conversation was. So intimate a position, he felt, should have brought with it blushing and averted eyes, but he had no trouble holding the cowboy’s gaze and attention. Yet, the news he was delivering was the hardest he’d ever brought. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologized quietly, pulling himself out of Jesse’s grasp. For a moment, he was back in Hanamura, in an old warehouse by the water, facing the youngest of their clan, apologizing, murdering. The fear in the eyes of his victim, the sheer, unadulterated terror, would never leave him. Nor would his pleas for mercy, for freedom. But he could not grant this; it was not his right to do so. 

Hanzo shook off the memory, shuddering from its weight, knowing he would never truly be rid of it. With abruptness, the archer disentangled himself from McCree and stood, moving about quickly, dressing almost haphazardly, promising to retrieve the cowboy’s clothing. This at least he could do for the man. In the end, his own paranoia, fear of his family and the legacy they represented and his father’s demanding voice had won out over the sweet, wild affections of the cowboy. Hanzo did  _ not  _ regret the previous evening. This he would never do, he vowed it to be so. But he had to protect himself, right?  _ This is the best course of action _ , his warrior’s mind told him, shouting between throbs of his swollen brain. 

Jesse was stunned, shocked hot and cold, but completely numb. He’d seen it coming, but that did not make such rejection any easier. A few seconds later and Hanzo was gone. McCree’s heart had stopped. The world had stopped, freezing all around him while he gathered his thoughts. Thanks to his exquisite black-ops training, the cowboy was instantly up and about, his body moving without the aid of his rattled mind. 

First, he set about tidying what he could, tossing the robe Hanzo had lent him the evening before. It smelled of the man, of whatever detergent he used and something else--mothballs perhaps? Something that suggested this was  _ not _ his. The size alone might have said so. Hanzo was well-built but diminutive compared to Jesse McCree. 

Hanzo walked down the hall, toward the laundry. On his way, he happened to pass the medbay where Dr. Ziegler was bustling about diligently, as she always did. She noticed him pass and poked her head out momentarily to greet him. 

“We missed you at sunrise,” she told him, referring to their usual morning coffee--tea, in his case--that herself, the Shimada brothers, and Zenyatta, shared on the upper levels of the base. It had become routine, an easy way to awaken. He had never missed a morning, until now. 

“My mistake, Ziegler- _ sensei _ ,” it was the second time this morning Hanzo apologized. He stopped long enough to offer a deep bow to her. She smiled and nodded, indicating it was quite alright and she wouldn’t hold him up any longer. Of course, to herself, Angela was intensely curious as to why he was absent, but assumed she would find out soon enough. She always did. 

Back in Hanzo’s room, Jesse methodically climbed into the shower he’d shared with Hanzo less than twelve hours before. He cranked the water on, washing the Shimada’s scent off of him. His eyes stung, but McCree choked down the lump in his throat and sluiced himself off.  _ I’ll get a proper shower when I’m back in my own room. No sense usin’ the man’s product all up _ . He kept his inner narrative deliberately casual, to fight the rising tide of his roiling emotions. The elegant  _ yukata _ , he’d left draped over the closest seat to Hanzo’s bathroom. It just didn’t feel right, wearing the man’s clothes after that… rejection? 

The cowboy knew what had happened between them was good, right? It would not have happened with such fluidity if it had been wrong. Hanzo fit against him so well, he fit  _ inside _ Hanzo so well--they had made love and it was wonderful. The two of them, archer and gunslinger, they were meant to be, of this he was so desperate to be certain. But, in the end, it had to be Hanzo’s choice. He understood this, but could not convince his aching heart. 

As he stepped out, he heard the sound of Hanzo’s door. The archer called into the room quietly. When the cowboy didn’t call back, panic spiked in his mind, though his face and body didn’t show it. Jesse had heard, but his voice caught in his throat, unable to sidle its way past the ugly lump that had taken up residence therein. 

“Jesse!” Hanzo repeated, a little louder. 

“In here, dar--ah, Hanzo,” McCree corrected himself, “just had’ta clean up.”

“Of course,” responded Hanzo. He was holding a pile of clothing, neatly folded, clearly McCree’s, in his arms. Jesse reached for them and the archer relinquished the ensemble, trying his best  _ not _ to stare at the cowboy. 

“I’ll be outta yer hair in a sec’,” Jesse promised, retreating into the bathroom and closing the door behind him. Hanzo was rooted in place for a few moments before his body reactivated itself, calling to the cowboy that he was going out to meditate and that he’d catch up with Jesse later. 

“Dinner, then,” came the flat response. 

“ _ Hai _ ,” said Hanzo, retreating almost too quickly from his own space. What had he done? His first order of business was to find Genji. Hanzo did not know what he would tell his dear brother. Given that they were on the path to reconciliation, admitting he’d slept with the man’s old friend might not have been the way to go, but at the very least, Genji’s levity would alleviate the soul-crushing agony to which he had subjected himself. 

This, he did with the speed and diligence befitting a man of his station. If Genji had caught the way he’d left his room, however, the younger Shimada would have called it a walk of shame. 

By the time McCree stepped out of the bathroom, garbed up appropriately and clean, Hanzo’s presence had fled the room, possibly that entire wing of the base.  _ Flighty _ , was McCree’s first, cruel thought. He shook it off. The man had responsibilities and possibly a life outside Overwatch. It was a miracle he was even here to begin with. They had a good time and now it was over. Jesse had to return to reality. 

But why did it hurt so much? Could it have been the words of affection, exchanged with equal weight and carelessness, caught in a torrent of passion, a whirlpool of sweet, agonized lovemaking that coalesced into veiled promises within promises and a dragon submitting to a cowboy…? Or perhaps it was the return to the mundane.  _ He called me lover, goddammit _ . 

Though Overwatch was anything but mundane, Jesse couldn’t help but crave the adventure of entangling himself with a man like Hanzo Shimada. The rejection had eaten a hole, acidic and hungry, right through the middle of him and it was not done burning. Best to think of anything else, food or the shooting range, anything was better than this.

When he exited, he did so furtively, glancing about and moving as quietly as his spurs would allow. There was no need to add to any gossip that might have already started. The agents of Overwatch gossiped like old women, that was for sure and the last thing McCree needed was for Hanzo to feel even further alienated from him and what they’d done by the talk of others. They’d see each other at dinner. That was the deal, right? Right. 

He felt his gut twist a little and chalked it up to hunger, clink-clinking toward the mess hall to see if anything was left. His watch--the face of which read “High Noon” in gold plate--said the time was a little after eleven. Lunch would be up within an hour or two, if Reinhardt had anything to do with it. The man would have made an excellent parent, had he been blessed with children. On the other hand, he had a tendency toward treating the Overwatch agents like his own brood anyway.  _ A reg’lar mother hen _ , mused the spurned cowboy. 

Unsurprisingly, he caught no glimpse of either Shimada on his way toward the mess, though he  _ did _ run into Genji’s placid mentor, hovering near one of the lifts, awaiting its arrival. 

“Peace be upon you,” the Omnic’s distorted, yet calming and friendly tone rang out as soon as they caught sight of McCree down the hall. The cowboy raised a hand in greeting. 

“Howdy.”

The lift doors open and Zenyatta floated their way in, offering a glance that was somehow completely placid, despite mobile facial features, as McCree passed. His smile was forced and he could feel the muscles of his face cramping, but hopefully the Omnic had not noticed. He had no chance of hiding the pain from Angela, however, so Jesse prayed fervently to any god who’d listen that something would hide him from her omniscient sight. 

His angel came in the form of the British speedster, sprinting (as always) down the hall behind him, catching him about the robotic arm and spinning herself to face him, all without jarring him an inch. She was incredibly light and her face came up to his chest. She was a bit shorter than Hanzo, more delicately built by far, and louder--so much louder.

“Oi, luv’, listen ‘ere,” she said, waggling her finger in his face. “You weren’t at breakfast, which means you ‘aveta pay the breakfast tax.”

“Sweetheart, I ain’t paid taxes to the crown since our li’l tea party in Boston Harbor,” came the incredibly American response. He just couldn’t help himself. Something about Lena Oxton brought out the best in McCree; when it came to cheering folks up, she was second to none and she didn’t even realize it. Maybe that was what made it so pure. 

“Typical!” She responded, tossing her hands in the air. “Actually I really just wanted someone to go to the store with me. Winston’s got a grocery list as long as my arms!” Lena tossed her hands out to either side of her body in a wide arc to illustrate. “And he said I oughtta find a willing participant.”

“So that’d be me, huh?” He guessed. She winked at him, blowing her bangs out of her heart-shaped face. He’d thought shooting or eating would work, but a grocery run in their beat-down old hovertruck sounded like a much,  _ much _ better distraction. 

“Spot on,” she said, “but you’ve gotta change. We’re goin’ incognito!”

It was then that he noticed the chronal regulator on her chest was concealed with a handsome bomber jacket-scarf combo and her normally bright pants had been replaced with jeans. 

“How long have I got to change?” He asked, “‘cause my room is…”

Jerking his thumb over one shoulder was Jesse’s way of indicating the distance. Tracer bobbed back and forth a moment, plucked at her lower lip and then stuck her tongue out, as if doing complex equations. 

“Ten minutes, love, that’s all I can spare!”

And with that, she was off like a shot--literally--and Jesse McCree was left in a cloud of dust and amusement. The aching guilt and shame continued to lurk, of course, as well as the pain and a hint of bitterness. He moved swiftly, therefore, to change into something less… McCree. 

The activities of Overwatch were way under the radar these days. Even the recall was running on silent. It had to. The PETRAS Act made any OW activity highly illegal and his bounty was already quite high. Best to stay under the radar.  _ Keep your head down, mijo _ . The voice of Gabriel Reyes, his mentor, would always have a special place in the cacophony of his memories, mostly because the man gave good advice, even from beyond the grave. 

“Yessir,” he mumbled, finding himself suddenly at his own door. It felt foreign, somehow, wrong to be here instead of Hanzo’s. What an odd switch, given their intimacy had only been for one night. What made him worthy of stepping past the Shimada’s threshold once, much less ever again? He punched in his code with little gusto and slumped through the doorway. Only the warning of ten minutes kept him moving.

Everything worked methodically from there on out. First, his hat had to go. That was way too noticeable. He set it on his sparse desk. Then the  _ serape _ . This, he folded somewhat neatly and placed atop his small, spartan chest of drawers. He had not been wearing his armor when he’d gone to Hanzo’s place, so that was still settled on the armor rack in the corner. Spurs, boots and chaps were next. He had to look as normal and unassuming as possible. 

Long sleeves were in order, to obscure his prosthetic, but first the bulky, outer armor had to be removed. It would prevent his arm going into the sleeve of the shirt in the first place. He poked a few buttons and released a couple of clasps, freeing the skull plate on the outer edge of his arm. This he attached to the mannequin that held his chestplate. Sadly, the belt buckle had to go too. 

“Heh… I earned this one,” he mused aloud, detaching the gaudy, brass thing and settling it on his chest of drawers, right next to the  _ serape _ . His room was dismally unadorned compared to Hanzo’s, which had been wall-to-wall traditional decoration, but not a piece out of order. Remarkably different from the near-empty living space Jesse now occupied. Something about entering a room that likely belonged to someone who was probably dead at the end of some Talon creep’s gun barrel didn’t sit well at all with McCree. Yet here he was. 

He settled heavily on the bed, eyeing the buckle and trying his best to remember the good days of Blackwatch, before everything had crumbled around them. Reyes’s voice rumbled in his head, clear and low, direct and cutting deep as it always had. 

_ Remember the day I got that for you? You were so banged up, I thought you might never smile again. Had to make you smile. That stupid trinket did the trick.  _ It had been a black-ops mission to a beautiful city called Dorado. They had no choice but to keep their numbers low and Reyes wouldn’t entrust the job to anyone but himself--against Jack’s wishes, of course, though no one knew  _ that _ but Jesse. He kept it to himself ‘cause  _ El Jefe  _ picked  _ him _ . Gabriel Reyes chose young Jesse McCree as his partner on the Dorado mission. 

“I was nineteen,” he heard himself speak this aloud to an audience of one. The walls echoed with his gravelly baritone. He didn’t mind. Sometimes it was nice to tell a story to himself. Lena probably would’ve liked it, too, but this was one he preferred to keep for his own. He could still feel the salt sea breeze pouring in through their hotel window, rustling McCree’s soft, chestnut hair, unhindered by the presence of a hat. There were good times, silvery, gentle times...with the moon shining down on tanned flesh, half-lidded eyes, a worried lower lip… Yes, times had been all right.

The mosaic steps were his favorite. When viewed from beneath, they painted a wildly grinning sun. Those led up a hill to a wild trail with an ending at the top of a small mountain. He wanted to see it all, take it all in and Reyes had been more than accommodating. 

“You can’t be a black-ops agent and know nothing of the world you’re working in, you understand?” He asked Jesse when they’d reached the beautiful summit of the nature path. The view was breathtaking. As the wind whipped all around them, the vista of Dorado was laid out beneath their feet, the lights of the houses twinkling like warm stars. McCree could almost feel the twist of his ear as Reyes dragged him back to reality as his  _ own _ situation came crashing back down upon him in a thunderous howl and crack, like lightning and a hurricane all at once. 

Hanzo had refused him and they’d parted ways. Now he was going to the store with Lena and he had less than five minutes to rendezvous with her. Hastily, Jesse tugged his hair into the semblance of a ponytail, tossed on jeans and his boots--sans spurs--and grabbed a long-sleeved shirt. This, he was tugging on as he stumbled out the door.

“Ayy, careful man!” came the lyrical voice of one of their newest editions, a DJ-turned-freedom-fighter by the name of Lúcio Correia dos Santos, a native of beautiful Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, with the flow and the rhythm to prove it. McCree couldn’t help but notice the long stare the younger man gave him as he tugged his shirt down over his thick torso and barrel chest. 

“Ah, pardon,” Jesse offered, heading the opposite direction. He could have sworn the DJ muttered something like ‘they don’t make ‘em that way anymore’ and then perhaps had made a raunchy purring noise before rounding a corner and disappearing. Maybe the kids today  _ did _ have good taste, after all. He couldn’t stop the flush that covered his cheeks at the idea that a man more than ten years his junior at least found his  _ torso _ physically attractive.  _ That’ll do me just fine _ .  

The cowboy managed to find Tracer in record time with a minute left on the clock, according to the speedster. He had a smile on his face that was just a little less fake than it had been before and with that, he followed her out toward the garage area, Torbjörn’s domain. 

The engineer was, as per usual, up to his beard in repairs, turrets, vehicles, defenses of every shape and size. He was intensely focused upon a particular weld when the speedster and cowboy approached him and Lena’s tapping on his shoulder only made the poor man jump and clutch his chest with his remaining had.

“Goodness sakes, girl, ya nearly sent me off to the great scrap yard in the sky!” Torbjörn exclaimed dramatically. 

“Sorry, luv’,” she apologized sheepishly, darting around him and inspecting whatever he was doing. Of course she could make neither heads nor tails of it, but then, perhaps he couldn’t either. For now, it was just a pile of parts and ideas, carried aloft on the dreams of a very small, extremely ambitious builder. 

“Mind pickin’ me up some ⅜” hex bolts?” The engineer inquired sweetly, working on this and that, his tiny legs carrying him easily across to the next project. Tracer tapped the side of her head, indicating she caught his order, dancing her way over to their ride. 

“They  _ make _ stuff in inches anymore?” Jesse inquired, raising a brow. 

“Only the  _ best _ stuff, my boy!” Torbjörn assured the cowboy. Jesse turned his palms skyward in surrender and ambled his way toward the old truck. Lena already had the keys and had climbed into the driver’s seat, which was fine with Jesse, whose mind was entirely elsewhere.

Meanwhile, high above their heads, perched on the lofty cliffs which hung over the Gibraltar base, the brothers Shimada spoke in earnest. They sat facing each other, kneeling respectfully and conversing in their native tongue. Hanzo had begun by touching his forehead to the stone between carefully pressed fingers, begging Genji’s forgiveness for missing their morning with the good doctor. Genji had, as usual, casually shrugged it off, failing to understand the depths of Hanzo’s guilt. Typical Genji. 

“ _ It is perhaps easy for you to dismiss such a thing, but you must understand _ ,” Hanzo began, up-righting himself to continue speaking, “ _ for me, this routine is all I have. If I am the one to break it, what is left _ ?”

“ _ Please, brother _ ,” Genji begged, both palms facing Hanzo. “ _ Don’t take this out on yourself. So you were tired… you slept in. What of it? It is not the end _ .”

Of course, Hanzo had done more than just “slept in,” which had been why he’d requested to see Genji sans his hovering mentor. It wasn’t that Hanzo didn’t  _ like _ the Omnic; he really had no feelings for or against Zenyatta, save perhaps gratitude that they’d befriended his formerly wild brother. What he had to discuss was personal, for family only. Actually for Genji only, as Hanzo had disowned the rest of their clan. But how to present such a thing?

“ _ I slept with Jesse _ ,” Hanzo blurted, tossing his graceful plan of attack completely out the window. He felt his heart shudder and climb toward his mouth, as if to say ‘I no longer wish to be housed in this body, please free me!’ He swallowed his fear however and tried his best to gauge his cybernetic brother’s reaction. The infernal visor made such a thing almost impossible, but for his body language, which spoke volumes. 

“ _ You--you were late this morning… because you were sleeping in… with McCree _ ?” The incredulity pierced the odd, distorted overlay of Genji’s new vocal cords. A thousand and one thoughts crossed the cyborg ninja’s mind. The first was of course why had McCree not mentioned this relationship to  _ him _ , his one and only friend left from his Blackwatch days? Unless…

“ _ It was… I have never done such a thing before _ ,” Hanzo added somewhat sheepishly, “ _ that is… not with him _ .”

To say he’d never slept with a man would have been an insult to Genji’s intelligence and his own integrity, shameful though Sojiro Shimada had regarded that particular happenstance.

“ _ Why _ ?” It came out harsher than he meant it, but--calm as Zenyatta had taught him to be--the younger Shimada brother was, for reasons he could not understand, infuriated, to a degree, with Hanzo’s behavior. For his part, Hanzo had no proper response, so Genji pushed. “ _ I’m sorry… Just… start from the beginning, walk me through it. _ ”

Hanzo could hear the control Genji was exercising over his tone and understood immediately why something like this might upset him so very much. Their path to reconciliation had been a rocky one, though the younger sibling had made it as gentle a transition as possible, bless him. He’d even invited Hanzo to join Overwatch, an offer the wanderer gratefully accepted. 

“ _ He is a filthy man _ ,” Hanzo began, feeling the flush rise up over his cheeks and ears before he could amend his statement. “ _ He is always covered in dust or grease… or sweat. I was displeased with… his hygiene _ .”

This, at least, was moderately amusing to the ninja, who chuckled and flipped a hand around a bit to indicate his brother should go on. “ _ And…? _ ” 

“ _ And so I challenged him--that if his shower was clearly so broken, he should come use mine and I would make him smell like something other than the underside of that horrid truck _ .”

They both knew the one to which Hanzo now referred, a junky old thing the team used for grocery runs, so as not to be detected. It forever smelled of lithium grease and hover module lubricant fluid. Genji didn’t mind it, but Hanzo detested such disorder and unnecessary odor. Thus, the younger brother could understand why Hanzo would want to bathe McCree. 

“ _ He used to smell of blood _ ,” Genji mused quietly. This, Hanzo caught and filed away for later. Having slept with the man, he thought he should perhaps gather more information about him, embarrassed he’d not done it first, but the  _ saké _ had seen to that little inhibition, breaking it down like an ice floe in spring, lazily washing all resistance down a swiftly flowing river of desire and a distinct lack of self control. 

“ _ I convinced him to remove his prosthetic… it was filthy as well, _ ” Hanzo continued. Genji nodded again, recalling all the guts Jesse had figuratively--and literally--ripped out with that thing. He’d acquired it a few years into his Blackwatch tenure, sad to see his real arm go, but grateful for the replacement, as he had been with his eye. 

“ _ He trusts you _ ,” said the ninja quietly, remembering a time when Jesse wouldn’t let anyone near him, much less allow them to take off his arm. He was never unfriendly, but he  _ was _ closed off… to everyone but Reyes. The very name made Genji’s insides shudder involuntarily. He betrayed nothing on the outside, however, a picture of perfect composure. 

“ _ He… insisted he could not do it on his own, without his arm _ ,” said Hanzo, eyes downcast. He had known exactly what Jesse McCree was up to at that precise moment. It wouldn’t have taken a seer to figure that out, but he’d walked into it anyway, naked and willing. 

“ _ He was flirting with you _ ,” commented Genji, his voice taking on an almost amused tone. Almost.

“ _ He was _ ,” nodded Hanzo, admitting his weakness with those two words and then adding a few more, “ _ and I fell...into his ridiculous trap _ .”

Something about Hanzo was lighter, despite the guilt and contempt he was currently radiating and rebounding back upon himself. He was glowing. Genji could see it in his eyes, his posture, the way his hands moved across his lap as he spoke, the way he chewed his lower lip after regarding their cowboy friend, even conversationally.

“ _ It is difficult not to _ ,” said the younger brother, reaching out and patting Hanzo’s shoulder. His rage had subsided into what might have been misconstrued as pity. But he could have no such thing for his mighty brother. It would have been an insult. 

“ _ I...we bathed...showered, actually... _ ” It sounded horribly awkward, presented in that manner, but Hanzo had no other way to describe it. “ _ I retreated _ .”

Retreat was such a militaristic way to describe Hanzo’s exodus from the bathroom when he realized he was getting hard, but given their upbringing, it was only natural for him to see it that way. The movement had been a tactical retreat, an attempt at regroup which had failed miserably. Jesse had flanked him easily after that, especially with the alcohol. 

“ _ You drank with him, _ ” Genji guessed, observing his brother’s bleary eyes, clearly bloodshot, and the way Hanzo regarded the sun with what could only have been described as pure, unadulterated hatred. 

“ _ Quite a bit, yes _ ,” confirmed Hanzo, nodding, unable to control the vivid red of his cheeks. His hands balled into tight fists in his lap. Should he tell Genji that he showed the cowboy their sacred, family dragons? That the guardians of their clan for generation upon generation had almost been audience to his disgraceful behavior? Why was the word disgraceful so readily available? Was Sojiro Shimada not dead and in his grave? Why would he not leave his eldest alone? 

“ _ And then? _ ” Genji prodded, noting the vacant stare and the way Hanzo’s eyes settled on something in the gap of air and light between them, as one does when remembering that which is no longer. Hanzo snapped back to reality and immediately decided to skip the bit where Jesse referred to Eisuke and Arashi as an “audience” to the massive lapse in judgement that had occurred shortly thereafter. 

“ _ We… oh for goodness’ sake, Suzu--Genji _ ,” Hanzo caught himself and covered his face once more, dropping into that deep bow again to beg forgiveness. “ _ Please. I am sorry, brother. I cannot offer more detail. Please forgive me. _ ”

Genji sighed deeply and reached out to lift Hanzo to an upright position once more. If he was not mistaken, there were tiny pricks of what looked to be the beginnings of tears at the corners of his distressed brother’s eyes. The man was harried, hungover and confused. Snapping at him for a slip in name would do neither of them any good.

“ _ Aniki _ ,”  _ Brother,  _ Genji insisted. “ _ I have forgiven you. The next step is for you to forgive yourself. I beg of you. Look at me. _ ”

Cold, cybernetic fingers came into contact with the side of Hanzo’s face, forcing him to meet the glowing green of Genji’s visor. With his other hand, the ninja, pressed a button on the side of his helmet, lifting and disengaging the entire faceplate. His own face was beneath it, partially reconstructed under Angela Zeigler’s frightfully effective scalpel. Hanzo had seen it before, but the shock was always the same. 

One side was mangled beyond much repair but a cybernetic eye, glowing in a soft greenish hue, scarred all to hell. The other side was the soft, happy, full-cheeked, sweet visage of his baby--brother. He had to remember, Genji was no longer Suzume, perhaps had never  _ been _ . How was he to say? Wisps of dark green hair, synthetic and made to feel real, hung around what was left of Genji’s face, still smiling even through all the trauma. 

“ _ How can you forgive me for doing such things to you? _ ” Hanzo gestured to his brother’s body, artificial throughout almost 89% of it, most of the flesh battered and burnt and consumed beyond recognition, the bone now replaced with metal and the organs almost all synthetic. 

“ _ My heart is still mine and it beats for my family, _ ” said Genji. “ _ Right now, that family is you. It is you and McCree, Zenyatta, Reinhardt, Angela, all of Overwatch. You are my family. Family is love and support. It is not duty and honor and… murder. You are above that. You have escaped it… your body has escaped, anyway. Your soul still seems trapped. Tell me, what did you say when you left Jesse this morning? _ ”

“ _ I… told him this could not be _ ,” admitted Hanzo quietly, unable to meet Genji’s gaze any longer. Those eyes at which Hanzo was not looking had gone wide, mouth falling open in disbelief.

“ _ You are… kidding me, right? _ ” Genji shook his head, trying to shake off the utter incredulity which had settled upon him in those few moments. “ _ This foolishness is a joke, isn’t it? _ ”

“ _ Foolishness? _ ” Now it was Hanzo’s turn to be offended. “ _ What do you mean? _ ”

“ _ You have a chance at happiness, _ ” Genji shot back, drawing himself in momentarily and softening his tone. “ _ You can have what father took your legs for trying when we were under his thumb. _ ”

Hanzo remembered that incident with vivid clarity, wishing against wish he did not. He recalled the feeling of the son of another influential crime family, of writhing beneath him, warm and sweaty. The archer recalled the way his name sounded spilling from that boy’s lips… rewarding, but nowhere near as satisfying as when Jesse said it. It was just as well those earlier memories were being replaced with images of the cowboy instead. Sojiro Shimada had, indeed, taken Hanzo’s legs as punishment for his “deviance.”

“ _ So you think I should-- _ ”

“ _ I think you should go after him _ ,” Genji hissed, rolling his eyes at his brother’s complete density. “ _ I do not resent you for this… Hanzo, I couldn’t do that. You’re finally becoming what you should have been able to blossom into for years! Don’t you see it? Father held us down--look what happened to us _ .”

The younger Shimada continued to use the word “us” when Hanzo could only think that he should have been saying “me.” Hanzo had grown to be the obedient son Sojiro had always demanded he be. Even defiant, he still ended up coming around eventually, after some forceful convincing. His hands went subconsciously to his mechanical knees, recalling the terror that swam throughout his body as the Shimada private surgeon put him under. He could hear his father’s voice, even now. 

“ _ Just enough so he feels it. This is punishment, not reward. _ ”

The agony had been inhumane, but Hanzo’s voice had left him. He was paralyzed, forced to lie still and feel his lower limbs being removed from him.  _ Just enough _ . He felt it.

At that moment, the horrid sound of the old grocery run hover truck firing up caught the ears of both brothers Shimada and Hanzo watched it speed away bearing two occupants. He could guess that the larger of the two, in the passenger’s seat was the man he’d just spurned. 

“Later,” he promised his brother, returning easily to English. “And… thank you.”

Genji nodded and stood, hydraulics hissing minutely. He gestured toward the shooting range near the edge of the cliffside on which the base sat. “Join me?”

“Of course…  _ brother _ .”

**Author's Note:**

> This is from a long-running RP between the two of us. We've striven to give each character their own voice, doing our best to keep them close to their canon portrayal (as much as is possible). This is only part of a huge collection of one-shots and full-on stories that will hopefully span the better part of the world of Overwatch. 
> 
> Think of it not as an alternate universe, but more of an altered universe. The events are basically canonical, fitting as well as can be expected into the half-formed timeline Blizzard has given us. Some factoids are warped and stretched a little, but the basic premise remains the same. In any case, we hope and pray y'all enjoy.


End file.
